


Heroes of the Revolution

by thisbluespirit



Series: Heroes of the Revolution [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1970s, 20th Century, Alternate History, Community: runaway_tales, Dystopia, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fights, Gen, Imprisonment, Politics, Resistance, Restoring society, community: isurrendered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 19:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: "It's the morning after the revolution before. The Evil Empire has fallen; the Plucky Rebels won against impossible odds, as Plucky Rebels tend to do. Now they've just got to deal with the messy aftermath and, you know, actually govern the place. Preferably without becoming like the regime they've just defeated."





	1. Workings of Fate (T, 1960: Charles Terrell, Ron Whittaker, Edward Iveson)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the LJ community Runaway Tales. As that is now defunct & looking shakier by the day, I've decided to put most of these over here in case anyone would still like to read them. Many of them were also written for various fandom bingo prompts, especially Hurt/Comfort Bingo.
> 
> I wrote these a while ago, a lot were fairly experimental (as per the nature of the comm), and while I'm still pleased with much of it, it's also fair to say some of the things I learned were that I would do things very differently now & there are topics I wouldn't have tried to cover in any other situation. They were written 2014-2017 & I have only made minor edits (if any) to most of them.
> 
>  _Heroes of the Revolution_ was originally conceived as an isurrendered [fake (1970s) TV show](https://lost-spook.livejournal.com/368480.html) with a detailed [episode guide here](https://lost-spook.livejournal.com/371671.html).
> 
> While _Divide and Rule_ takes place before _Heroes of the Revolution_ , it was the fake prequel series (sometimes these things get out of hand) and HotR was mostly written first. Probably because I had plotted the original series idea so thoroughly, I wound up writing more of D & R than HotR, so it's more fragmentary. What is here is mostly set 1991, with the fall of Hallam's dictatorship, with other pieces set 1961-1991, in between the two 'canons'. A few characters span or connect both.
> 
> As with _Divide & Rule_, I've added all applicable notes & warnings to individual pieces that I can think of, and made it as navigable as possible via the Chapter Index.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whittaker sends Charles to see the Foreign Secretary in his place, and everything changes…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late 1960; Charles Terrell, Ronald Whittaker, Edward Iveson. 
> 
> Prompts: White Chocolate #8 (helplessness), Prune #13 (give him enough rope), Sangria #1 (Two roads diverged in a wood) + Malt – Valentine Box prompt ( _without a sound the glittering face of a glacier slid into the sea_ from likelolwhat.)
> 
> Warnings for imprisonment, interrogation, mentions of suicide.

Charles Terrell hunched into his coat against the cold and the drizzle and counted the numbers of the houses of the long, elegant terraced Georgian crescent as he walked along, wanting to be sure not to miss the one he was after. As he went, he cursed Ronald Whittaker under his breath. It was his fault Charles was here at all.

Whittaker had caught Charles earlier and told him that the Foreign Secretary had been asking to see Whittaker, but Whittaker didn’t want to see him. “On the other hand,” he’d added, “the man is still the Foreign Secretary. I can’t ignore him. It might be something important. So, if you would go and see what he wants, and then if it is, I can fit him in tomorrow.”

Charles had raised both eyebrows.

“I’m not going to explain,” Whittaker had said. “I don’t know all the details and I don’t think it’s much to anybody’s credit, but I don’t feel inclined to see Mr Iveson just now unless I must. I think I know what it might be – and I don’t want to be involved. If I wait, chances are he might be gone soon, anyway.”

Charles hadn’t liked the sound of any of it. Either he refused to oblige Whittaker who was a member of the Cabinet and someone who’d been generous to him, or he agreed and very likely had to face an annoyed Foreign Secretary who wanted to see Whittaker, not some very junior MP. So, he had merely nodded, and made his way to Whitehall.

However, on arriving, he was told that Mr Iveson had already left for the evening, but he had said that Whittaker could call on him at home, provided that he arrived no later than seven. It was not yet six, so Charles felt he’d better go at least try and beard the lion in his den, but it made him even more uncomfortable. 

 

“You’re not Whittaker,” said Iveson, when he saw him standing on the doorstep.

Charles stepped into the hallway, and followed him into his study, damp and still clutching his coat. “No, sir. Mr Whittaker had something come up so he sent me to see what you wanted, if it was urgent. I’m sorry.”

“I see,” said Iveson, sitting down at his desk. “Yes, I do see. He wouldn’t have listened anyway, would he?”

“Sir?”

Iveson looked up at Charles, still standing in front of him awkwardly. He gave him a more curious look, the colour of his eyes seeming to shift from grey to blue in the light. “And who are you?”

“Charles Terrell,” he said. “Member for Leyton.”

Iveson drew back from his desk in a long heavy movement. “I had hoped to have a word with him about Mr Hallam – I know they’re friends. However, if he’s not here now, it really doesn’t matter any more.”

Charles couldn’t keep back a slight start at the name. He’d seen very little of Thomas Hallam – other than Whittaker, he wasn’t exactly closely associated with any cabinet ministers – but only yesterday he’d been at a meeting with Hallam, and had ventured to make a point. Hallam had rounded on him and taken him down brutally, all the while looking through him or past him. Of course, that wasn’t a crime, and you didn’t stand for parliament if you couldn’t cope with a debate, but something about it had made Charles decide that Hallam was someone he’d hate to have as an enemy.

“You don’t care for him, either, I take it?” Iveson said, catching Charles’s reaction, and there was a short-lived flicker of amusement in his face. “He is getting more impatient with us all, isn’t he? Maybe with reason, but it’s uncomfortable, yes?”

Charles wasn’t sure how to reply, so he shrugged fractionally and got out another neutral, “Sir.”

“Anyway, you may tell Mr Whittaker –” Iveson hesitated again and put a hand to his temple briefly. “Tell him that if he has any influence with Mr Hallam to ask him not to interfere with negotiations over aid in Europe. Tell him that should go without saying. But Mr Hallam would like us to retreat behind closed doors and heal our own wounds first, which is all very well, but it’s never quite that simple. The world is connected, however much or little we like that fact. But there. Mr Hallam thinks like a soldier, and this is another war to him.”

Charles nodded, although he found it hard to picture himself actually giving Whittaker that message. He’d try, though. He also found it hard to see any obvious indication of what it was Whittaker had against Iveson. “Yes, sir.”

“Charles Terrell, did you say?” said Iveson, giving Charles another look, taking stock of him perhaps. “Would you be any relation to Professor Terrell?”

Charles had been on the point of making his excuses and escaping, but he held back at the question. He froze for a moment, but there was no point in denying it. “He’s my father.”

“He came to speak to me once,” said Iveson. He gave an odd smile that was more for himself than for Charles and added almost under his breath, “It could have been worse.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Iveson shook his head. “Nothing. Forgive me, Mr Terrell. I must be keeping you from other things.”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid,” said Charles. He waited while Mr Iveson stood and showed him out. Once the door had closed behind him, he let out his breath and then departed gratefully at speed.

 

The next morning, he found a plain clothes policeman heading up the stairs to his flat as he was coming down.

“Charles Terrell?” the man said.

Charles hesitated, instinctively searching his mind for any crime he might have committed, but could think of none, at least not that the police would be interested in. “Yes?” he said warily.

The policeman introduced himself then as Inspector Walters, and ushered him back up to the flat, where he glanced around for a few, worrying moments, before turning round. “I understand that you called on the Foreign Secretary yesterday evening. Is that correct?”

Charles stared back at him, unable to understand what he might mean. “Well, yes. Why? Mr Whittaker asked me to go and see him, because he was too busy. I don’t understand what that’s got to do with anything.”

“No, no,” said the Inspector. “We’re not after you, Mr Terrell. We just need a word or two about that visit – if you’d come with me. It’s something of a delicate matter. Best not to go into it here, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Charles did as he was asked, still bemused, and not much reassured by Walters's attempts to placate him. He was beginning to catch up with himself, and realise that if it wasn’t him they were after, it must be something to do with Mr Iveson. He thought again about Whittaker’s vague warnings about the man, as he sat in an uninviting, spare interview room, nursing a particularly bad cup of coffee. Ten to one it was something to do with that, and he couldn’t help wishing that Whittaker had bloody well gone himself, like he should have done.

Walters sat down opposite him and asked him a few questions, mostly very prosaic, about what time he’d arrived, what time he’d left, and the purpose of the visit.

Charles answered dutifully, and then said, feeling impatient, “Look, what is this about? I was supposed to be meeting Mr Whittaker this morning, and whatever it is you think I know, I really don’t.”

“And you may go on your way any minute now,” said Inspector Walters. “It’s just that –” He hesitated again, and then said, “Well, I suppose it’ll be in the papers before the end of the day. I’m afraid the Foreign Secretary is dead. Looks like suicide. So now I think you’ll understand why we wanted to talk to you.” As Charles stared back at him, he added, with more sympathy, “You seem to have been one of the last people to see him alive. You see now?”

Charles nodded, effectively silenced by the news. It wasn’t as if he had known Iveson, not really, but it was still a shock to hear that someone he’d seen and spoken to last night was now no longer here – that it must have happened not long after he’d left. He found himself tightening his grip on the mug. His thoughts leapt about in uneven, untidy bounds. It could have been worse, that’s what Iveson had said. He’d meant Charles; he meant if Charles was the last person he spoke to… Charles felt slightly sick. “Bloody hell,” he said, under his breath, and then looked up, embarrassed. “Sorry, Inspector.”

“Hear worse than that in here,” said Walters. “Would put it more strongly than that myself. God only knows what drives a man to do that. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt in the matter, so you needn’t worry on that account.”

Charles hadn’t even thought about that: the idea of him wandering in and murdering the Foreign Secretary was too ludicrous to entertain, at least for him, if not for the police. He nodded again.

“Anyway,” said the Inspector, who seemed to be becoming more human by the minute, “finish that coffee and you can go on your way again, now we’ve got a statement from you. Sorry to have given you a start like that, sir.”

“I didn’t know him,” said Charles, feeling vaguely like a fraud. “I mean, I’d seen him at things. Said hello once. It’s still a funny feeling, that’s all.”

Walters got to his feet, and turned to go out the door, when he stopped and swore. “Oh, that’s all we bloody need. I suppose it was inevitable with this one.”

The door opened, and a man in a quietly smart suit walked in. The clothes suggested a civil servant, but his movements had a restrained power that contradicted them. He gave Walters a polite greeting, then handed him a piece of paper, and turned to Charles. “We’re going to need a word with you.”

 

Charles tried not to be too alarmed on being led away, but when he eventually arrived at a far grimmer interview room – more of a cell, or, he supposed, an interrogation room – he knew it was not turning out to be a good day.

The man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, said briefly that Mr Iveson was a suspected traitor and that they needed a full account of everything he’d said to Charles.

Charles felt an instant wish to refuse, but it wasn’t rational, just a dislike of the man and this treatment. He bit back a sigh, and recounted his conversation with the Foreign Secretary for the second time, in more detail. Whatever the truth, it couldn’t do Iveson any harm now, and if they could find anything secret in the unimportant, brief exchange they’d had, good luck to them.

The trouble was, the man refused to believe him. There must have been more, he insisted.

“Look,” said Charles, “that was all we spoke about – I’ll swear to you on anything you like. And you can’t keep me here, anyway, not like this. I’m an MP!” As soon as that was out of his mouth, he realised that in this setting, it was a stupid thing to say.

The man leant forward and said, patiently, “You went there yesterday evening, on his request. You were the last person he saw. Now, you must have gone to give or receive a message – something. We want to know what that was, and I suggest you tell us. Believe me, I have authority to do this.”

Charles felt pretty sure that he couldn’t have, not legally, but it didn’t seem like the moment for arguing. “I just went to see what he wanted with Whittaker. Nobody asked me to take a message, either way. What I’ve told you is everything.”

“I see,” said the man, and walked out, leaving Charles locked alone in the room. Later on, he came back and asked the same questions, except this time he shouted furiously at him, and eventually, they put him in a cell for the night. He kept waking, thinking it had been a nightmare, and finding it was still real, and then somebody turned up again and dragged him out, still in the middle of the night, and shouted at him again.

There was no sense to it, but it was no good him telling them that when they didn’t want to hear it. He was beginning to understand why people would make things up, but even if he was willing to at some point, he couldn’t for the life of him think what sort of thing Whittaker would want to use him to tell or pass on to Iveson, or vice versa. It was terrifying. How long before they were satisfied he was telling the truth?

Perhaps they wouldn’t be, he thought, shivering in the cell – they’d taken his jacket and shoes this time. Perhaps making things up was what they wanted; they just needed to let him get desperate enough. He lay down and concentrated on trying to remember that he was still in England, that he was pretty sure the authorities weren’t legally allowed to do this sort of thing, and someone ought to know he was missing by now, but it wasn’t all that comforting.

 

Next time the door opened, it wasn’t the same man, but another, older man who led him out, and handed him back his jacket, shoes and the things they’d confiscated from his pockets, with a charmingly civil apology for such an unfortunate error. He couldn’t think how it happened.

Charles followed him without saying anything, expecting it to be a trick. However, he was escorted out of the building and left standing on the steps, feeling confused and distinctly sub-human, and wondering exactly what he was supposed to do next, when Ronald Whittaker came hurrying over.

 

“My God, Charles,” said Whittaker, in the cab moments later. “What did they do to you?”

Charles shook his head. There had been an error, like the other man had said, and it was over now, that was all he wanted to focus on. It was over and done with, never to be repeated. He wasn’t sure how he felt about anything else yet. 

“Charles?” said Whittaker.

Charles closed his eyes. It wasn’t really a surprise, after all, to have to tell it again. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “I don’t know what they wanted; I don’t know what any of you are doing. They just seemed to think Iveson was up to no good and must have told me something. But the only thing he said apart from hello and goodbye and was I related to my father was just about asking you to see if you could get Hallam to hold back on some negotiations about aid.” He felt sick again, and an irritable anger, probably part of the tiredness. “And then he went and killed himself. That’s all.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I mean, there was something odd about the interview, I could tell, but nothing I really stopped to think about, and I didn’t know why – I couldn’t know –”

“No, no, of course you didn’t,” said Whittaker. “Charles, I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea, I’d never have asked you to go and see him. And I’m sorry it took me so long to get you out of there. I had a hell of a job tracking you down, and then I had to go get Hallam to have a word with somebody in charge.”

“Why did he do it?” Charles wasn’t really listening; he had gone past that. He turned his head. “Iveson. Why?”

Whittaker shrugged. “Oh, God, who knows? I don’t mean to sound heartless, but really –”

“They seemed to think he was a traitor. A spy. Something.” Charles still found that hard to believe. Surely the Foreign Secretary was the sort of person who got spied on, not the other way around?

Whittaker stared ahead. “Yes. Well, I don’t really know about that, either. Hallam’s said something, but I just don’t want to know, because I think that Tom – Hallam, I mean – well. None of it matters now he’s gone, does it? Whole thing is over.”

“Is it?” Charles wondered why they weren’t home yet, and then opened his eyes again. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked, feeling even more exhausted.

Whittaker gave him a concerned look. “Oh. I should have said. We’re on our way to your father’s place. The old boy was worried. He tried to get in touch with you and your landlady said you’d been arrested. And I thought you might feel safer if you weren’t alone.”

“Thanks,” said Charles, recognising the truth of the latter, although he wasn’t sure he was in any fit state to face his father yet, either. Then he closed his eyes again, and thought that Father, for all his shut-off ways, would understand how he felt better than Whittaker seemed to. What he’d just been through, how impossible he would have said it ought to be, and now that he was safe again, that sick feeling that somehow he should have known about Iveson, that he should have done something, though God only knew what.

Whittaker shifted in his seat. “Like I said, I’m sorry, Charles. None of this should have happened.”

“No,” said Charles, and watched the houses go by outside. “No, too right it shouldn’t.”


	2. Hole in your heart (where the rain gets in) (T, 1961/1968/1972/1976: Charles Terrell, Anna, Michael Seaton, Louise Murray, Liz Cardew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dictatorship is merely a fact, a regime only an impersonal idea, until the first time the truth of it comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1961, 1968, 1972, 1976; Charles Terrell, Anna, Michael Seaton, Louise Seaton, Liz Cardew. (All as children/minors, except Charles.)
> 
> Prompts: Passionfruit #7 (After the first death there is no other), Chocolate #9 (resentment)
> 
> Notes/warnings: Dystopia, imprisonment, death, abandonment.

_four walls make a prison (Charles Terrell, 1961)_

Charles leant back against the wall of the cell, and panicked in silence. This was the second time he’d been arrested in one year. The first had been worse – a confusing, terrifying event. He’d been interrogated, threatened, held without rhyme or reason as far as he could tell, but that had been down to a misunderstanding, and Charles had thought Whittaker had cleared all that up for him. But, no, it seemed that incident had been enough to get him viewed as a potential threat to security and so here he was again, locked up, this time as a precaution.

He shifted away from the wall and sat down on the bunk. Was that how it was going to be now? Every time the government got nervous, any time there was fighting, or trouble, or threats, he’d be back in here? He could see any hope of the sort of life he’d wanted slipping away from him, and along with it the political career he’d only just embarked on. It could be worse than that, too. If the government got even more paranoid, maybe next it’d be people close to him, somebody he’d stopped to talk to that morning without good enough reason.

Yesterday, he’d been afraid for the future of the country, but he found that was an academic thing in comparison to this: giving up on himself, losing faith in Whittaker – and the bitter irony that he’d so nearly bought Elizabeth a ring. He closed his eyes, and lay down, close to tears. What the hell would they leave of his life, after this?

One of the security guards pushed the door open; he wasn’t even allowed to be miserable in peace, it seemed. He’d gained a cellmate – a young man, Afzal, he said his name was, probably around Charles’s age. Charles half sat up and gave him a quick smile, before he turned away again, not ready to talk.

“Now look what they’ve done,” said his fellow prisoner. He sounded much too cheerful still. “Gone and shown the world what sort of bastards they are. It’ll be the end of them, if they’re not careful.”

Charles only shook his head, still staring blankly at the wall. He could only see the prison.

 

*

 

_death sentences (Michael Seaton, 1968)_

 

They shot him. Michael Seaton could never get that thought out of his head, right through it all – from the moment he heard that world-shattering sound as he walked away; then running back, already too late by the time he turned, and on, through the funeral he hadn’t been allowed to go to. He did what he could, though, hanging about outside the cemetery, kicking his heels against the wall and smoking a smuggled cigarette, as if he didn’t care, but he did.

They’d got into the compound down by the river, him and Tom, just for the hell of it. Of course, it was Michael’s idea; things like that were always his idea, and that was the main reason he was outside the cemetery now, instead of inside it with Tom’s family and other friends. Tom’s mother hadn’t exactly said anything, but she couldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t look at him. It had been Michael’s idea to go in there, and he’d been able to run fast enough to get out again, while Tom hadn’t.

Michael had heard someone saying afterwards, that the soldier who shot him had said that that made it all right. If Tom wasn’t fit enough to give much to society, there was no room for him, not in these days. Times had changed, and life was harder. And Tom always had been the first to fall over anything lying in his path, and suffered from just about everything going – hay fever, asthma, short-sightedness – but what did that matter? He had a sharp sense of humour and plenty of ideas, just mostly the sorts that didn’t involve crazy dares like Michael’s. They’d been friends for ages, even though they were both aware that people around them disapproved in a sort of vague, nebulous way. Michael’s family were better off than Tom’s, which didn’t matter to them, but other people were more wary.

They must be nearly finished in the cemetery, Michael thought, and straightened up before getting out of there. He was here for Tom, not to cause any more trouble, so he threw down the remains of the cigarette, and ran away.

His father had always said things about joining the army. It was in the family, and all that. Michael had never been interested before. Now, he went so far as to say he might, and that’d show everybody. 

That was what he said; what he’d already decided was that he would. And one day, he’d find that soldier again, and shoot _him_ , and he’d tell him before he did it why, that he’d got it all wrong: Tom was the useful one, and any bloody idiot who couldn’t see that was the one who deserved to die.

 

*

 

_paper chain people (Anna, 1972)_

Catherine Miller folded the sheets of newspaper over and carefully cut them into a paper chain of people. She wasn’t supposed to – her mother saved the paper for wrapping, toilet paper, or lighting fires, all sorts of things – but still Catherine would do it. Now she unfolded them, stretching them out across her parents’ bed, naming each one of them in her head.

“Oh, _Catherine_ ,” said her mother, coming into the room. “Must you?”

Catherine shrugged, and then let herself half fall off the bed and onto the floor. She wriggled half under the bed, pulling out a pile of paper. “You’ve got all this here. Could I use that instead, then?”

“Those are important!” Mum said. “Now, put them back where they were. I’m sorry, Catherine. It’s only that it’s too useful to waste – and I’ve told you that I don’t know how many times before!”

Catherine knew that would be the answer, really, so she was already gathering up the papers in her arms to put back into the box, and then they fell through into a muddled heap on the flowered patterns of the old carpet. She saw a marriage certificate for Mum and Dad, her brother’s birth certificate, some boring bank things, and then she picked up her own birth certificate, and then stopped, holding her breath as she saw how different hers was.

“Catherine,” said Mum in alarm, and she crouched down beside her.

Catherine stared at it. Unlike her brothers’ certificates, there was no father in the column where there should be, only her mother, her surname still given as White, not Miller. She looked up at Mum, eyes wide, waiting for the explanation.

“I meant to lock those things back up again,” said Mum, sounding tired. “I am sorry, Catherine.”

“What does it mean?” Catherine wanted her to say that it was all some sort of silly mistake. Her Dad was her Dad; hers just as much as Philip and David. “Why is it wrong?”

Mum put an arm around her. “No, it’s not wrong. Darling, I’m so sorry. It doesn’t make a difference, you know that. It never has. You’re ours, both of ours, and you always have been.”

“But I’m not me,” she said, and screwed up her face at the alien thought. “And my proper Dad – he didn’t want me, did he?” There was an empty column on the piece of paper. He hadn’t wanted to be there, hadn’t wanted anything to do with her. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

Mum took the document from her, and looked at her seriously. “Catherine, your Dad is your Dad. As to your – your father, well, it wasn’t like that, either. Now, tidy up that newspaper and come downstairs. I’ll make you a hot drink and I’ll explain as much as I can. All right?”

Catherine nodded, and did as she was told, but she screwed up the paper people, getting the ink over her hands. Better that way, before they knew they were nobodies after all, destined for the fire.

 

*

 

_exits and entrances (Louise Murray, 1976)_

One fall was all it took, only a stupid trip over that one low step leading into the house, and suddenly Nan could no longer walk about briskly and do everything she wanted. It seemed to be the signal for all sorts of problems to fly at them both. Nan went to the doctor, and then afterwards a woman came round, asking questions, and put Nan down for the nearest Centre. They said they would of course take care of Louise, but that was when Nan lied, and said she had a niece who would take Louise in; she’d sort that out herself.

“We’ll have to find you somewhere to go,” Nan said, after they’d gone. “I can’t keep out of their hands, but you can and will.”

She didn’t think of anything, though, having to get the doctor out again, and they took her away sooner than expected. She lied again through it all, saying that Louise was already gone away, when she was hiding in her wardrobe, just in case they checked the room.

Afterwards, Louise was left alone in the small but terribly empty house, and cried till she nearly made herself sick, her face swollen and blotchy. But nobody came, nobody helped her, and nobody helped Nan, either. Tears, Louise learned then, didn’t help. Nobody even noticed, or if they did, they pretended they didn’t. She still had to get up, wash her face and find somewhere to go, all by herself.

There was no one else left now. Dad had died years ago, and Mum had got herself into trouble with the authorities. Louise knew she was supposed to have an aunt, but nobody had heard from her in years. There had only been her and Nan, and now it was just her.

She packed a haversack and ran away, out into the back streets and hidden alleys of London, trying to keep out of the way of the people who collected in the homeless and the strays. 

That was when she found the theatre. It was closed down now, and boarded up, tattered, fragmented posters by the door still boasting of the success of its last play. Louise had never been there before, but she and Nan had once been to one of the big theatres, years ago, when they were all still open. 

She crept inside, claiming it as a place to stay, and later, she stood on the unsafe boards of the stage and told the non-existent audience that she’d stop it all somehow. It wasn’t the first or last bit of bluster they’d witnessed.

 

*

 

_naming of things (Liz Cardew, 1961)_

 

“Say your name,” said Emily’s new foster mother, Mrs Cardew.

“Elizabeth Cardew.”

Mrs Cardew nodded and kissed her forehead. “And it’s always, _always_ that, remember. You do understand?”

“Yes.” That was a lie. Emily Elizabeth Iveson was nine years old and she didn’t understand any of it. She didn’t understand how Father could be dead; she didn’t understand why Mother had to go away, and she didn’t understand why suddenly it seemed she wasn’t allowed to even exist any more.

Mrs Cardew hesitated, as if seeing something beyond Emily’s obedient expression, but then she only asked if Elizabeth would like some milk and biscuits.

“Yes, please,” said Emily – _Elizabeth_ – and followed her. She didn’t understand any of it, but if Mother had run away and left her, then she might as well be somebody new, somebody who had an adopted mother who _was_ here. In lieu of any other explanation, she made what sense she could of it all by blaming Mother.

Mrs Cardew hesitated again, and said, “She loves you, dear. She loves you very much.”

People kept on lying and not explaining, thought Elizabeth. Mother had told her it was important for her to go away, but Mother had also said she would come back, and she hadn’t. 

“Who?” said Elizabeth, with the virtuous air of one who had learned her lesson perfectly.


	3. Coming of Age (PG, 1962: Liz Cardew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily leaves the last remnant of her old life behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1962; Elizabeth Cardew. Drabble.
> 
> Prompts: Sea Salt #5 (dew) + Pocky + Malt – Ghosts of the Past #2 (end of childhood/beginning of adulthood) + My Treat – Emily is gone, Elizabeth is born.
> 
> Notes/warnings: abandonment, secret identity.

Ten was too young to count as grown-up, but Emily felt it was old enough to start abandoning childish ways and went out into the garden on her birthday – heedless of getting her socks and shoes wet with the dew – to make a vow. Ten was old enough to know it wasn’t worth being Emily any longer. She’d answered to Elizabeth, Lizzie, Liz all year, but inwardly, secretly remained Emily. Now, Elizabeth would be braver, better, stronger; Elizabeth’s parents would never leave her behind; Elizabeth would fight if she must. 

Nobody, she decided without tears or fuss, would miss Emily.


	4. Tell Me No Lies (G, 1971: Liz Cardew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that Liz knows now is that she knows nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c. 1971; Liz Cardew.
> 
> Prompts: White Chocolate #3 (deceit), Prune #26 (as far as I know) + Malt – January Games Week I (from ichthusfish: _How much does Emily Iveson/Elizabeth Cardew know of her parents activities at the time of her father's death and mother's dissapearance, before she starts investigating as an adult?_ ) + Winter Prompts #4 (unrecognizable).
> 
> Notes/warnings: death, parental abandonment.

Liz returned to her flat, dropping her bags and sitting down on her bed with a sigh. She fell back onto the mattress, lying there, staring up at the fine cracks in the ceiling, thinking over everything again. She’d only recently started seriously trying to find out more about what had happened to her parents, but she kept hitting dead ends. Even the possibility that they had in some way been involved in the early days of the Resistance hadn’t seemed to get her anywhere.

In frustration she closed her eyes and searched her own memories again, desperate for a clue. She’d shut all of this out of her mind as hard as she could and it took an effort to go back there now. She remembered mostly how it had been in the last two or so years, when her father had been Foreign Secretary. What time she’d had with him then had been mere snatches in between official engagements and trips. Mother, too, sometimes, although she’d stayed with Liz – Emily, as she’d been called then – as much as she could. Liz had been once or twice to the Foreign Secretary’s official residence at Donningford, but not as a rule. They’d wanted to keep her life as normal as they could, although that had seemed to involve a lot of staying with friends and relations.

The less busy, perhaps cosier, family existence that had existed before that was more vague in her mind – she’d been fairly young still. There’d been the three of them in Chalcot Crescent, with Mrs Crosbie who came in to help out a few days a week, and a cat called Trouble. There had always been a lot of other people coming and going and parties and serious talks that she’d had to keep away from. She breathed out and tried to sort through the tangled collection of birthdays and Christmases and bad days at school and holidays in Kent to find something in there that seemed odd or sinister in retrospect, but there was nothing. She tried to recall the endless stream of visitors, to put names to faces, but the only ones she knew for certain were her family, and other people who were already dead or missing, like Mrs Foyle and Mr Harding.

There was nothing she could dig up from her memories to tell her why Father had ended things as he had, and even less to help her fathom out what had happened to Mother.

And she thought, with an echo of the anger she’d felt so often growing up, that made all of it untrue, all the memories, good and bad. It was a lie and she really hadn’t known them at all.


	5. Bury Your Sins (But Not in the Back Garden) (T, 1978: Charles Terrell, Liz Cardew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Liz Cardew is wary of Charles asking her for help, it’s because this is what happened the last time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1978; Charles Terrell, Liz Cardew.
> 
> Prompts: Papaya #8 (you'll never get away with this!)
> 
> Notes/warning: death, blood.

Liz Cardew was used to telephone calls in the middle of the night. It wasn’t only the demands of a surgery, but she also sometimes assisted members of resistance groups when they needed a doctor. It was never, though, a welcome event, and tonight was anything but an exception.

“Dr Cardew?” said the voice on the other end, and she frowned in concentration, trying to catch the words. The line wasn’t good. “This is Charles Terrell. I’ve got a bit of an emergency here.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Look, it’s complicated,” said Charles. “I can’t explain over the phone. I’m sorry I had to disturb you, but it _is_ an emergency – if you come round, you’ll see what I mean.”

“Then I’ll be there as soon as possible,” she promised, and put the phone down. She bit back a slight sigh, because her bed was warm and comfortable and the night was cold, and by the sounds of light pattering on the window, also wet. However, she busied herself about, putting on some clothes and grabbing her medical bag.

She hadn’t seen Charles Terrell for quite a while – he belonged to Whittaker’s group, and that particular branch of the resistance rarely required her help. She wondered what had happened, and then had a sudden thought that perhaps it was Whittaker himself. It didn’t sound as if it was Charles who’d been injured. It had better not be, she thought, because Whittaker was fast becoming the best hope they had of challenging Hallam and it would hit them hard to lose him.

Then she shook off such pre-emptive fears and told herself that, whatever it was, she’d better get round there as fast as she could, and help.

 

When she arrived at Charles’s house, he nearly fell over her in his relief, and then pulled her in, shutting the door behind her. In the light, she could see that there was blood over his shirt, although it didn’t seem to be his.

“It’s Vi,” he told her, though he still kept his voice low. “She turned back up, shot. Some of the soldiers, I suppose. I don’t know.”

Liz nodded. “Where is she?”

“In the sitting room,” Charles said, “but I think – I think she’s dead. About ten minutes ago – I was there but she just –” His words gave out, but Liz wasn’t listening anyway. She hurried past him, and into the room.

Vi was lying there on the settee, and Liz crouched down beside her. She’d known Vi much longer than Charles had, back when they had been friends at college – Liz had known her by her real name of Sarah Grainger. She’d been the one who’d led Liz into the Resistance, even if that had been Liz’s intention for reasons of her own. Liz leant in, reaching for her wrist to take a pulse that probably wasn’t going to be there, and felt oddly startled: she hadn’t expected to see Vi again.

Liz understood that Vi had been in some sense running Charles a couple of years back – Charles worked for an entirely different resistance group; these things were complicated. Well, it had been more than that, Liz knew, but she didn’t ask too many questions. However, Vi had grown impatient with the lack of progress and turned to more extreme measures of fighting the government, creating her own splinter group. Neither Liz nor Charles had seen her since then. Liz couldn’t approve of such violence, and Charles wasn’t in favour of it, either. He was one of Whittaker’s lot, and they were all about using peaceful methods and working from within the government. Besides, she had a feeling that whatever their relationship had been, Charles had never been entirely comfortable with Vi.

“Oh, God,” Liz said under her breath, her memories of Vi warring with the reality of her current state. Charles was right: Vi was dead. She’d been shot twice, in the leg and the shoulder, but the blood loss had evidently been severe. Charles’s settee was in a state, but there wasn’t as much as there should be, given her injuries – she must have all but bled to death before she reached the house.

“I know,” said Charles from the doorway, making her start. She’d almost forgotten him, looking at Vi. “I mean, I know that was the risk she took, but –”

Liz nodded, and then stood slowly, his words pulling her back to the other aspect of this, one they were both going to have to take very seriously if they didn’t want to end up like Vi. “Charles,” she said. “How did she get here?”

“There was a cab,” he told her. “I assume he was connected to Vi’s people or she’d paid him, but he pretty much pushed her out and went once I’d got to the vehicle.”

Liz carefully maintained her breathing. “Then somebody else knows. Chances are we can trust them, but we can’t ignore the possibility he might have gone away to tell someone – or someone might have caught him, and that taxi must have been in a state.”

Charles stared back at her, blank and uncomprehending for a moment, before he started to take in her point. “Oh. I need to – to do something with – with the – with her. What do I do?”

Liz had to stifle a moment of panic, and a cowardly urge to go and leave him to solve that particular problem for himself, but she forced it away. She didn’t think he was in any state to come up with a sensible solution. “Charles, we’ll think of something.”

“We can’t just – just throw her out on the side of the road or something,” he said, lowering his tone in his distress at the idea. “It’s Vi. We’ll have to – I don’t know – we could bury her somewhere. If we could get her to the cemetery, or no – in the garden, maybe?”

Liz moved forward. “Charles!” she said. “Stop it! You can’t possibly bury her in the garden. Someone knows she was here, and, anyway, what if one of the neighbours saw? There’s no way you could explain that. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but can you imagine the headlines? ‘Minor government official murders former lover and buries her in the back garden.’ I don’t think it would end well, do you? Be quiet and let me think.”

Charles leant back against the wall. “Well, it’s not your problem now, is it? You can’t help her. It’d be unfair to –” Then he stopped, and rubbed a hand over his forehead, as if he wasn’t even sure what he’d been going to say. 

“Into the kitchen,” said Liz, watching him and not liking what she saw. He looked drawn, his eyes dark with distress, and he was shaking slightly. Shock, she thought, and set about putting the kettle on, and searching his cupboards for the tea. He only tried to help by the time she’d already found it, although all he had was half a tin of raspberry leaf tea and hardly any sugar, so she made two cups of not-quite-tea and added a spoonful of honey each, which once might have seemed odd, but it was the sort of thing everyone had to put up with these days. It’d do, anyway.

She passed him the cup. “Drink that.”

He shook his head. “Don’t think I could.”

“That was an order from your doctor,” she said, sitting down at the small wooden table. “And I mean it – you can’t try burying her anywhere.”

Charles sat down opposite, still holding the mug. “Yes, but what else can I do?” he said, and gave her an almost pleading look. “I can’t – my God, what else do you expect me to do? I’m not going to go round disposing of a body like some serial killer! I don’t have the means, even if I wanted to.”

“Charles!” said Liz. “Shut up. Drink your tea. And, no, of course not! Look, I have a friend who works in a casualty department. We’ll get her into my car, and I’ll take her there. I’ll say that I found her, and he’ll understand the situation. There are quite a few of us these days who try to help your people, given the way the government wants us to treat our patients.”

He nodded slowly, but said, “Unnamed, unknown? Doesn’t seem right.”

“No,” said Liz, and took a sip of her own tea. “But Vi chose what she did, and she knew what the consequences might be. I’ll make sure somebody in her old group knows what’s happened to her at least. What you have to do now is clean this place up. We can be thankful for the rain, I suppose. Hopefully, it’ll have washed away any blood on the drive, but you’d better check as soon as it starts to get light.”

Charles didn’t say anything. He still seemed rather dazed, but at least he was drinking the tea now.

“And,” Liz added, “once you’ve done all that, you telephone into the office and tell them you’re sick. I’ll give you a note if you need one.”

“But I’m not –”

Liz shook her head. “You just called the doctor out in the middle of the night, didn’t you? Anyway, you don’t want to risk giving yourself away, and shock and grief – they’re funny things.” Which, she thought, was a particularly stupid word to use, but it was true. She felt all right for the moment – a little shaken, a little wired – but she’d have to watch herself because it was easy to think it was professional detachment when it wasn’t anything of the sort.

“I’ve kept my mouth shut for a very long time,” said Charles, waking up enough to be annoyed, which was a good sign. “That’s not about to change.”

Liz shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. Besides, if you’re not sick, what did you want with a doctor? Don’t complicate things.”

“All right,” he said. He did seem to be recovering himself slightly. “I’m sorry. Look, Liz, are you sure you can trust this other doctor? I don’t want to send you off – have you get into trouble on my account.”

Liz nodded. “We’ve had to cover for each other before. Not quite like this, but – yes. And it’s not on your account, is it? It’s Vi.”

Charles watched her, evidently not yet convinced.

“Come on,” said Liz. “We’d better not waste any more time. Help me get her to the car. I’ll come back tomorrow – well, later today now, isn’t it? I’ll let you know what happened and tell you that you’re malingering or something.”

Charles looked at her. “And what if you’re stopped on the way?”

“I’m a doctor,” said Liz. “At least I’ve got a better excuse than just about anyone else I can think of. And it’s not far – no reason why I should be.”

He got to his feet. “Thanks. And I’m sorry.”

“Just help me get her into the car,” said Liz. “We’ll need to do our best to make it look as if we’re helping her in, and hope to God your neighbours are all asleep.”

They exchanged glances for a moment. Liz then shook herself, because standing there wasn’t going to improve their chances.

“Look at it this way,” she said, sounding still as practical as ever, though she was beginning to feel unsteady, too. “If one of your neighbours reports something, there’s nothing to find, as long as you get on with the washing – and I’m not here. If someone stops me, like I said, I’ve got a decent excuse for why I’m driving around at night with a body in the car – and nobody knows I picked her up here. It’s the best we can do – and hopefully nobody _will_ ask questions.”

Charles gave a small smile of acknowledgement. “She always _was_ trouble,” he said.


	6. Lead Me On (G, 1984: Anna, Michael Seaton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resistance has suddenly gained a hero. It’s a bit of problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c. 1984 (Anna, Michael Seaton, meeting for the first time.
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #20 caution, Papaya #22: now what?
> 
> Notes/warnings: general resistance/totalitarian state backgrounds. While not the first piece I actually wrote, this was the first I posted.

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain,” said Colonel Seaton, following Anna down the stairs into a cellar that was being used as a back-up operations centre. “What is it I’m supposed to be doing?”

Anna turned and gave him an appraising look. This was her first meeting with the resistance’s unexpected new hero. He fitted the bill well enough so far as looks went, being tall and fair, although she thought, it wasn’t so much that as the way he moved, the way he spoke: there was a sharpness to him, an energy – the air of a man used to being obeyed.

“Well,” Anna said, “you’ve attracted some attention, Colonel.”

“I thought they told me titles and real names were to be left at the door,” he said. “It’s Arran now.”

Anna, who’d been pulling together some papers on the nearest table, glanced up at him. “What, like the woolly jumper? Not very inspiring, is it?”

“Just a name,” he said. She thought, though, that she saw a humorous twitch at the corner of his mouth for a moment and gave him an additional point or two for that. “And, no, _not_ like the woolly jumper, nor the island. Now, surely you must have some instructions for me?”

Anna sat down at the table and motioned for him to do the same. She picked up the nearest pencil and rearranged the papers in front of her. “Not really instructions. We can’t order you to do this, but I’ve been asked to persuade you.”

“And who the hell are you?” he returned. He sat down, but she caught the glint of anger in his eyes, ready to be insulted that they’d left him to someone he no doubt dismissed as a mere girl. 

Anna smiled. “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs? I’m nobody. We’re all nobody here. Except for you, it seems, and that’s the bloody problem.”

“I understood it was an advantage,” he returned, but she felt now she’d caught his attention in the right way. He thought she was someone he could do battle with: a worthy opponent. She decided she could return the compliment, if that was what it was. “That’s what you people keep telling me.”

 

(Anna hadn’t been in the London base when she’d heard the news about Seaton. She’d been halfway to Brecon, stopping off to make contact with a small cell and they’d heard it over their radio. The resistance had been getting pretty good at intercepting official signals, and this one had been everywhere, anyway, not even Hallam’s people could hide it: Colonel Seaton, sent to deal with a civilian protest outside the former Marylebone Workhouse had instead defected along with a good dozen of his men and assisted the protesters in getting the condemned elderly inhabitants out of the building.

The Colonel was someone who’d been on their lists to approach – maybe the first overtures had already been made – but Anna was close to the centre of operations and she hadn’t heard anything to suggest they’d got any agreement out of him. And this! This was outside of anything – it was the first such open rebellion to come from within the government for years, and maybe the only one that had ever been so successful.

It made all the difference. Suddenly, Jako and Gretel, the two she’d been calling in on, were fired up with the possibilities, having lost the defeatist attitude with which they’d first taken her messages. Anna wouldn’t put too much hope in any one person, but it was possible this might be the turning point they needed.

Unlike the other two, though, she was already thinking ahead – there were going to be repercussions all over the country. Once Hallam and his people saw that reaction, they were going to clamp down all the harder in fear. There was going to be trouble. Wasn’t there always?)

 

“They asked me to speak to you because I know the tunnels well,” she said. “Got locked down in them a few years back. Thought I was never going to see daylight again.”

“Tunnels?”

“Closed underground lines mainly,” she said, “but there are others.”

He studied her closely. “I’ve no desire to hide for however long it takes till they’ve forgotten about me. If you’re not going to make use of me, there isn’t very much point, is there?”

Well, and aren’t you the big hero to the life?” said Anna. “You’d rather they took you away and executed you publicly, then? Maybe they’d beat you down until they got an apology out of you first while they were at it. Kill off that bit of hope you gave people. Wonderful.”

Arran leant forward against the table. “I think we can’t afford to wait before we strike at them again. Show people the tide can be turned.” He paused and gave her a dark smile. “If it can, of course. But the only way to find that out is to try.”

“And you don’t need to explain that to me, either,” she said. “We’re not going to hide your light under a bushel, don’t you worry. We want to cause some confusion.”

“Then congratulations,” he said dryly. “From where I’m standing, it’s working.” 

Anna leant forwards. “If you agree, what we do is make it look as if we’ve smuggled you out to the provinces somewhere. Take you through the tunnels, let you be seen on the outskirts, send out a decoy for them to follow –”

“That sounds like a pointless risk.”

“Not if we get them sure enough they need to be looking elsewhere. What we want is to get you a meeting with – someone important.” Anna caught herself. She’d nearly slipped and said Whittaker’s name aloud.

“Ah. Now I see.”

“There is some risk, of course,” she said. “But if we thought it was too great, we wouldn’t be asking you. We don’t want to lose you.”

“Then when do we start?”

“I need to radio someone; then we can go right away. Everything’s ready – just waiting for your agreement. And, like I said, I know the tunnels. I’ll be your guide.”

Arran got to his feet as she did, giving her a curious look. “You said years before. You don’t look that old.”

“None of your business,” she told him, and then relented with a quick smile. “If it matters to you, well, I got involved over five years ago. That’s a long time round these parts. I’d have thought a soldier would understand that.”

 

(Anna had ended up in the Resistance through being in the debating society. She didn’t think that had been the intended outcome, but then again, it was a group designed to encourage a lot of argumentative people, so maybe it was. There were questions that they could never raise there, and that in itself opened her eyes. And once Anna saw a thing, she had to respond. She’d never been the passive kind.

“Don’t get involved in anything,” her mother had told her before she’d set off for university, lucky enough to still be permitted a place. “Any political groups, I should say. It’s not safe, no matter how it sounds. Promise me, Catherine.” 

So, Anna, who was that much younger and still known only as Catherine Miller, had promised she wouldn’t, and while she slowly made up her own mind about things, she ignored illegal pamphlets and leaflets that were dumped around campus. She’d get her degree first and do something about the rest later, if somebody else hadn’t got rid of Hallam first. Besides, it was more complicated than that, wasn’t it? The country was in a mess. Maybe that needed fixing before the government. 

She might, despite her rebellious mind, have walked that way forever, away into a career and family, put all her energies into helping with the ongoing fuel crisis or food shortages instead, but the girl next door to her was taken away by Security Division. They didn’t drag her away in the night; they came quietly by day, as if it were a reasonable act. She’d been printing seditious leaflets, they said. Catherine Miller had one in her possession. She’d thought it was pretty innocuous and half-hearted. She’d have had more to say than that, given access to a printing press. 

It made her furious, but she knew what to do: she waited for somebody to show an interest in her friend’s disappearance and found out from them where to go and who to fight. She did remember about her mother’s advice, but it was only Catherine who had promised to be cautious. Now she was merely Anna, and Anna had made no promises to anyone.)

 

“One thing,” said Arran as Anna led him away. “I’ll have you know that whatever happens, I am _not_ begging their pardon for what I did. Hallam and anyone else who allows such orders to be given – they’re the ones who ought to get down on their knees and beg if anyone should! And if I can make them, I will.”

Anna opened the door, turning back towards him. He meant it, she thought, and felt a shiver of excitement. It wasn’t only her mother who’d told her to be cautious. Everyone had. People when she’d started trying to trace that leaflet to its source; the Resistance every time anyone had an idea for a mission. And of course, you wanted to come back alive if you could, that was only common sense, but she didn’t think you won things by being cautious. 

“All right,” she said. “I believe you. But while we head out this way, you keep quiet and keep that hood up – Captain Cardigan.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought it had a ring to it.”

“Suppose it does,” she said, locking the door behind her. “And I’m Anna, by the way. If this little venture doesn’t get us killed, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in the near future.”

Arran waited for her to lead onwards. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Oh,” said Anna, giving a private smile. “It’s not all that bad, sir. You haven’t met the rest of us yet. It could be worse.”

Yes, she thought, it could definitely be worse. Colonel Seaton would do; he’d do very well. Provided, of course, that they didn’t mess this little ploy up and get themselves both arrested or killed. Because it could be worse; that was one of the things you learned here: it could always be worse.


	7. Locked Down (PG, 1985: Michael Seaton/Louise Murray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arran and Liesa, hiding out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1985\. Michael Seaton, Louise Murray
> 
> Prompts: Papaya #24 (what’s the catch?)
> 
> Notes/warnings: resistance/dystopia.

To say the operation had gone wrong would be an exaggeration, but something hadn’t worked out, or Liesa wouldn’t now be hiding down a narrow, arched passageway between two terraced houses, Arran close beside her. They’d achieved the target, but she and Arran had been separated from the others.

Liesa turned her head towards Arran. “Stay here,” she said, running back into the street before he could argue.

One of the soldiers was still there. He gave a shout and ran after her, as she tore around the corner, heading towards the sea front through the terraced streets and back alleys. The last stretch was the worst. Once she was out on the front, there was little shelter, until she reached the sand dunes and slid down onto the beach. There she kept back, against the side of the dunes and the low wall at the edge, waiting, and holding onto her knife.

He might have given up, or called for reinforcements, or be taking another way round. She closed her eyes, listening for sounds that weren’t the waves or the distant bark of dogs further up the beach. Her heartbeat sounded noisily in her ears, and she tried not to breathe too hard from the exertion. Her pursuer might be listening, too.

Then the soldier jumped down beside her, so close he was almost touching her, and she grabbed at him. She kicked as hard as she could, as she struck out with the knife, catching his arm. He yelled out, and dropped his weapon, which she kicked away, taking advantage of his reaction to punch him. He staggered back against the dunes, and she snatched at the gun.

“No, wait, don’t –” he said, scrambling backwards against the sand.

Liesa moved nearer. “Well, then, stand still,” she said, and he did, being young and terrified. She brought the gun down on his head and hoped she hadn’t killed him.

 

When she made it back to the passageway, Arran wasn’t there. It wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Liesa leant back against the wall and surveyed the street, until she saw a man standing at the bus stop, hat down, arms folded, and she bit back a smile of relief.

“I don’t think the 52 stops here any longer,” she said, walking over to him. She fished in her coat pockets and pulled out a green and gold scarf to tie around her dark hair. It wasn’t quite enough, but they seemed to have lost the other soldiers, and they didn’t have far to go if she’d remembered the map rightly.

Arran followed her. “What did you do?”

She shook her head. There’d be time for that once they got to the hideout, and if they didn’t, then it didn’t matter.

 

Two streets further on, she led him up the drive of a three-storied Victorian house, and then down the tiny gated steps into the basement. 

Arran looked around the room, as she carefully shut the door and drew the curtain on the window half across. 

“And what now?” he asked, leaning against the wall, and watching her. 

She smiled to herself. “We wait. What else?”

“Wait for what?” he countered. “You’re sure the others got away? And what about the soldiers? What happens if they search the houses? It’s a bloody mess.”

Liesa turned. “I drew the last soldier off, to the beach and left him there.”

“Killed him?”

“Maybe. I didn’t stop to find out. And when they find him, hopefully they’ll think we got picked up by boat.”

“Would that we had been,” said Arran. “What about tracks?”

“Tide was coming in,” she said. “Wouldn’t be anything for anyone to see. Worth a try, and we needed him gone.”

Arran gave a short nod, which maybe meant that he was calming down. She didn’t know whether he was angry with her, with the enemy, or with himself for it not going exactly to plan, but it wasn’t useful. “Remind me not to annoy you. All right, so now?”

“I’ve still got the radio,” she said. “I’ll give the signal when it’s time and somebody will tell us the best way out of here, but we’ll have to stay quiet until they think it’s safe.”

He gave a short snort of disgust, and then sat down on the floor. There were a couple of armchairs in the room, but she didn’t feel any more inclined to try them than he evidently did. They were faded, the covers worn thin, and most likely damp. The whole place smelled of it.

“I thought you were a soldier,” she said. “You ought to be used to waiting for orders.”

Arran looked up at her. “Orders,” he said. “Ah, yes. What were yours?”

“Same as yours, except probably Anna didn’t tell you to make sure you kept out of trouble.” Liesa sat down beside him.

“Don’t be silly, of course she did,” said Arran. “She always does. All right, have it your way. We made an easy escape and now here we are, stuck together. Just coincidence?”

“Easy!” said Liesa, and swore at him, though she supposed you could describe it that way, but only because the soldiers who’d found them had been inexperienced. She was pretty sure they hadn’t known whom it was they’d nearly caught, either. She glared at Arran. 

Arran gave a small, ironic smile, and said, “Oh, yes, yes. I don’t know what Anna said, but I don’t appreciate attempts to manipulate me.”

“I don’t understand.”

He gripped her hand, painfully, startling her. “Yes, you do, don’t you?”

Liesa kicked him and he lessened his grip but he didn’t let go. She did understand and Anna had said something about it once, because Anna was always so relentlessly pragmatic about everything. _He likes you_ , Anna had said, flicking through papers. _Go ahead if you want, keep him on side._ Nothing had been planned, though, except the not-quite-perfect raid. “I don’t care what you think. Yes, it just happened. Think you’re all important, don’t you – sir?”

“All right,” said Arran, letting go of her. “I apologise for my unfounded suspicions. I’ve learned to think like that. Keeps me alive.”

Liesa shrugged. “Haven’t we all? Anyway, all that happens is that we wait here, trying not to attract any attention, sleep and watch by turns – the usual. For that, I’ll go first, and you can take stock of the food supplies in the cupboard.”

“I really have no preference,” said Arran, and then, after a pause, “and I said sorry.”

Liesa smiled to herself. “Yes, but you’re still thinking it, aren’t you, sir? Although I don’t know why, unless you’ve been telling Anna you’re going to leave us for Hallam or somebody even worse.”

“No, I have not.”

She looked at him. “Well, and I’ve always wondered – why did you wait so long?”

“What?” Then he glared at her, but it wasn’t for real this time, she could tell. “Is this an interrogation?”

“No, I just wondered,” said Liesa. “Were you waiting for the most dramatic moment, or, you know, it’s all right shooting one or two civilians, but dozens are a bit much, is that it?”

Arran said, “I see. It’s not an interrogation, it’s a catalogue of insults?”

“I’d like to know,” said Liesa. She thought it mattered, even if she was trying not to sound too serious about it. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers around hers when he’d taken her hand. It mattered rather a lot.

“I’m not in the habit of shooting civilians,” he said. “Not one or two, or dozens. If you mean enemy soldiers, enemy agents, terrorists, intruders, then obviously. And as for your question, well –” He stopped and shrugged. “You do wait, don’t you? You think someone else is going to do something. I joined up when I was young, probably for all the wrong reasons, there was training, and then it’s all riots and guarding various places that might be targets. Fighting in the north. And it’s not that I liked it, but what’s the alternative? Lose the government and leave the rabble to pick up the pieces?”

“Rabble like me?”

Arran looked at her. “Yes. Worse than you, too. That’s what I told myself, anyway. You lot look a hell of lot less reasonable from the other side, you know. Plenty of people who don’t like Hallam are hanging on in there for similar reasons. But then I started hearing rumours of someone at cabinet level who might be against Hallam. I think people were sounding me out.”

“What it is to be in demand.”

“And then I was ordered to the centre to carry out the executions,” he said. 

“And you wouldn’t,” said Liesa. “ _Such_ a hero.” She would have liked to have seen it, though. She rather gloried in the idea of it in her head, though she’d never admit that to anyone. He’d refused to shoot the elderly and unwell inmates and kept his men onside. She had a feeling that sort of thing was probably more him than covert operations. 

Arran said, “You know, I said I hadn’t been waiting, but it felt like I had – waiting for a moment like that all the time, something where you could see the line and which side of it to stand.”

“And what now?” asked Liesa. “What do you want?”

“Hallam has to die. Enough is enough.”

“Too right,” said Liesa. “But Anna says that’s not anything to fight for. Anna says we’ve got to do it to get a proper government back in place – think of what we’re working towards, not just what we’re ending.”

Arran laughed suddenly. “Yes, I’m sure she does. I’m sure I’ve heard her. But the only way you get that is by killing Hallam and that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Anna can bloody well do the rest of it herself. Or Whittaker, of course.”

“How inspiring,” said Liesa, straight-faced.

He looked at her again.

“I’m not here to tell tales to Anna,” she said. “I’m here for the same reason as you and none of the other things you keep thinking.”

Arran smiled at her; not one of his sarcastic smiles this time. “Good,” he said, more quietly. “I very much hope that’s true. I suppose time will tell – if we can get out of this bloody hole, of course.”

“I’ve told you,” said Liesa. “There’s a plan. You’ve really got to start believing me, you know.”


	8. Errors, Corrections (PG, 1990: Charles Terrell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Terrell, undercover for the revolution – compiling lists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1990, Hallam’s government.
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #18 (confinement); Passionfruit #6 (They also serve who only stand and wait)
> 
> Notes/warning: dystopia, resistance, imprisonment.

Charles found himself staring out of the window of his office more and more these days. He could see the river from it; the river that had witnessed two thousand years and more of this city’s history. Time moved on, governments fell, just as this one would some day. He hoped it would be sooner rather than later, before they’d all dug themselves into a hole so deep the only thing left to do was pull the earth in over them.

It was an effort to force himself back to his current task: compiling and checking lists. It always seemed to be one list or another these days. These were for transfers of extraneous members of society from regional detention centres to work camps where they’d be able to make themselves useful. (Extraneous largely being translated as not-useful, or troublesome, or both: protesters, those found loitering in the streets with no fixed address, the unemployed, sometimes the elderly and the unfit for work, though there were usually different lists for them). 

He checked the lists, all the while keeping an eye out for significant names, then signed the documents, stamped them, and left them in the tray for counter-signing. If he found such names, they went on the list of releases.

Next, though, it was the smaller list, but the worst one: transfers from regional centres to the main detention centre. It wasn’t exactly a death warrant, but it wasn’t much of a step up.

Someone had said to him once that if he really had principles, he’d walk out. If enough people like Charles did that, there wouldn’t be a government and Hallam would be finished. They needed more people like the Colonel, like ‘Arran’, who’d been given an order to gun down a group of civilians and who’d refused and was now working with the resistance.

It was a fair point, of course, except that the man didn’t know that Charles had another list to work through, this one in his head, the paper copy burnt shortly after it had come into his possession. These were the names he was looking for, the names he removed from the detention list and put onto the release list. Charles fought for the resistance in the way he’d been asked to, and it didn’t involve guns and bombs. Sometimes he found ‘errors’ in other people’s lists and ‘corrected’ them. It involved a slight risk on his part, but it wasn’t exactly heroic. He’d never pretended it was.

He realised that he was staring out the window yet again, and forced his attention back to the work. Sometimes he felt this office was suffocatingly small, and he wished he _could_ walk out. Then again, sometimes he felt the whole nation had become a prison from which none of them would ever escape.

*

How and when his own name ended up on one of the lists, he didn’t know. Maybe nobody knew, not even Hallam. Charles had received the order halfway through a warm afternoon he’d been longing to see end – a sudden revocation of all his passes and privileges, and then he was marched away to the Detention Centre.

It was a route he’d taken several times before in the course of his work, and at occasionally at night in dreams. The longer he played this double game, the greater his chances of winding up here. It came down to statistics. He couldn’t complain.

Charles wondered what it was that had given him away, or whether it was something else, just another example of Hallam’s increasing paranoia, but as days stretched on without anyone coming to interrogate or condemn him, it seemed possible that he might simply have been forgotten. Left in the cell, he missed his views of the City and the river – a literal cell was worse than a metaphorical one. There were, though, no more lists, no more secret life and death decisions and that was one small liberty.


	9. Ring Out the Changes (PG, 1991: Anna, Charles Terrell, Michael Seaton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now the revolution is nearly over, Anna’s work has only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1991, the fall of the government. (Anna, Charles Terrell, Michael Seaton.)
> 
> Prompts: Papaya #9 (I’ve got my eye on you); Passionfruit #1 (One paints the beginning of a certain end)
> 
> Notes/warnings: overthrow of a dictation, mentioned firing squad.

When they dragged Hallam outside, Anna kept back against the wall, watching everything, keeping a sharp eye out for any untoward movement, any unfamiliar faces, or anything in the least out of place. She wasn’t going to let the revolution fall at the last step.

Arran – Colonel Seaton – walked through the doorway and halted beside her. He didn’t speak, but he turned his head fractionally towards her.

Anna reached into her pocket and passed him the roll of paper. She didn’t say anything, either, but she nodded. It was a decision they’d already made, and now they had to go through with it.

She clenched one fist and carried on watching everything intently. They’d told Hallam, once they’d cornered him, that this was not murder, this was not an assassination; this was a long overdue execution.

The Colonel marched forward and passed the roll of paper to Major Harrison, who opened it up and began to read the list of names. It was a long list, but only the tip of the iceberg: a representative collection of those who had died as a direct result of Hallam’s actions over the years. God alone knew what the full tally must be, though no doubt someone in the future would calculate it and argue over it.

It was an execution, not a murder, and Anna was glad to see Hallam pay. He was a dictator. He had brought down the last elected government nearly thirty years ago, had caused the ensuing fighting, almost a second civil war, and then he’d ruled inflexibly, supposedly fighting to save them all from the crisis threatening Britain. There _was_ a crisis, one that had been going on for so long now it needed a better term, but that didn’t excuse Hallam’s methods.

What made it hard to watch now, even after all she’d seen and done, was not Hallam but the Colonel, herself, the rest of them. Anna knew her history and the danger of becoming what you fought to destroy; she knew what they said about the means becoming the end. That was what she feared; that was why she wished even now they didn’t have to do this. 

She swore to herself that she would never see that happen, and she would try to make this the last death that she had any part in. Then she closed her eyes briefly and remembered another private promise she’d made. If things didn’t go well, there’d be at least one more. She opened her eyes again, in time to see Hallam die.

*

That was the ending, the final ending of something that should have died a very long time ago. Once it was done, Anna turned her back, and went in search of a beginning.

Or, in more prosaic terms, she went in search of a minor member of the former government who’d been an ally of theirs for a long while. She just hoped no one had shot him by accident while taking New Parliament House.

*

Anna led Charles Terrell along the corridor, opening the door to the nearest empty office and ushered him in. She shut the door by leaning against it, and remained there for a moment, wondering in passing whose office it had been, before realising it didn’t matter. It was an oddly exhilarating thought and she had to remind herself again that power wasn’t a good thing.

“Well?” said Charles, brushing aside a pile of papers and perching on the desk, and watching her. “Much as I appreciate being released, I’d like to know what you want. I’m assuming you’re not going to shoot me, because there’d be no hurry for that.”

She prised herself away from the door, but didn’t look at him, busying herself pulling a chair across to the desk. Once she’d sat in it, she glanced up at him. She knew him from files and a few blurred photographs, but that wasn’t the same as the reality. He was watching her in return, his face etched in lines of wary puzzlement. Eyes that had been dark in the photos were lighter in life, an uncertain shade, maybe grey, maybe blue. He leant back slightly on the desk, thin but wiry, with a slightly worn air about him. 

“I’m hoping you’ll agree to be a member of the Emergency Government.”

Charles put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, _no_. Thanks for the thought, but I’ve done my time. Now it’s your turn. I’m going home.”

“Home?” she said, without thinking, and he looked down briefly, as if she’d struck a nerve.

He lifted his head again, and studied her more closely. “I haven’t done as much as you people, perhaps, but it’s been a long time. I’ve been in and out of prison, and one or two of those occasions were preferable to some of the posts I’ve held. What the hell is it you want with me?”

Anna shrugged. “But that’s it, don’t you see? Most of us, we’re what we are, what we’ve had to become – fighters. You’re still a politician.”

“You know,” he said, with a flash of amusement, “you almost made that sound like a compliment. Congratulations.”

“You’re on our side, and you’ve got the experience. We need people now who can fight with words, not weapons.”

“And you believe I’m one of those people?”

Anna nodded. “You’ve been involved in government one way or another for the last thirty years. You were even elected the first time. Plenty of people round here who’ve never seen an election. I’ve been looking at people’s records – finding copies of speeches, all that sort of thing, and, yes, I think you’re the best option we’ve got.”

“And what exactly did you have in mind for me, or hadn’t you got that far?”

Anna looked down again in an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation. (Say it, and there was no going back. In some ways, there was no going forward, but that part didn’t matter. It was personal and unimportant.) Then she looked up and gave him a smile, the light of challenge in her eyes. “Prime Minister, Mr Terrell.”

Charles Terrell started so hard he nearly lost his position on the desk, and then stared back at her. “Good God, you’re _serious_ , aren’t you?”

“Colonel Seaton will be Head of State, naturally, and whatever we decide besides that will only be temporary pending an election. However, we’ve still a lot of work to do before we can get to that point, and we need some sort of government in the meantime.”

Terrell looked back at her, wary again. “Your people aren’t going to like it, you know. You might understand what I’ve been doing, but I was never one of you. I was with Whittaker, before we lost him, not Arran. And once that’s out, I’m not going to be popular with my former colleagues in government, either.”

“I expect nobody’s going to be very happy about very much for a while,” said Anna, with another grin. “All this time, and they’re all going to want rewards left, right, and centre, but we’ve got to put the right people in the right places.”

He tapped his fingers on the desk, and inclined his head slightly as he looked at her. “I don’t suppose it bothers you, but it’s the last thing I ever wanted.”

“Good,” said Anna. “That was one of my reasons.”

Terrell raised an eyebrow at her rather mockingly. “Not the best qualification on its own, but I know what you mean. Well, I don’t know what the hell I said last time we met but I –”

“We’ve never met,” said Anna, a little too quickly, and was irritated at herself. She gave him a smile. “I don’t forget much.”

He scratched his head. “Oh, I thought we had. Must just be the files, then.”

“Infamous, that’s me. One of the most wanted people in the country.”

Terrell nodded. “Yes. The Colonel’s right-hand woman, no less.”

“Not what I’d choose to call myself,” she said. “I was in this for years before Arran turned up.”

He looked at her, frowning a little. “There is one thing I don’t understand. I accept your reasons for wanting me in the government, but why me for Prime Minister? Why not _you_? It ought to be you, you know.”

 _Because I don’t deserve to be_ , she thought, but didn’t say. _Because of what might still have to be done._ “Maybe that’s why,” she said. “Of course, we’ll have to convince the rest of the central committee, and that’s not going to be easy, but I think I can get enough people behind me –”

“I haven’t agreed,” said Charles. “The government, yes. If I must, to get us through this. I’ve given enough not to want to see us fail now, any more than you do. But Prime Minister! Is this a set up, so when everything goes wrong at the start, as it inevitably will, you’ve got someone expendable to blame?”

Anna laughed. “No. Mind, if you want out anyway, what would be wrong with that? Should suit you.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Charles said. “It’s a lot to ask, and I don’t know if I can do it.”

She nodded. “Of course. But you are considering it?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that if _you’re_ asking me in all seriousness, then I must.”

Anna looked up, startled by that. Her heart gave a small jump, and she balled her hands into fists again. (It didn’t mean anything, she told herself again. It didn’t mean anything.) 

“What’s your real name, anyway?” he said. “Isn’t the time for code names over?”

She shrugged. “Catherine Miller, but it’s been Anna for years – I’m too used to it to change. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Catherine Miller is no longer alive.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” said Charles, but before she could snap, he drew back a little, and smiled at her. “But Anna it is, then. Now what, or do we hide in here for the rest of the day?”

Anna glanced around the shabby office. “I’d rather not, thanks. Have you met the Colonel?”

“I haven’t had that honour, no.”

She nodded, and got up from the chair, her movements brisk and decisive. “Then I’d say it’s about time you did. He’s yet to be convinced, by the way. See if you can do that, and then you’ve probably got your answer, haven’t you?”

“And you think I can?” he said, not moving away from the desk yet, watching her in bemusement. “You do, don’t you?”

Anna shrugged, and then gave a wry, private smile. “I have every faith in you.”

“I thought it was an odd end to a sub-committee meeting earlier,” Charles said, standing up, ready to follow her. “Revolution and being locked in right in the middle of one of Sir Kenneth’s most interminable speeches. But now I see it wasn’t. Fighting, imprisonment, tedious meetings – I’ve had days like that before. Being asked to become Prime Minister – that’s a first.”

“Last, too, I should think,” said Anna. “Not the sort of thing that happens very often.”

Charles stood back, waiting for her to lead the way out. “Of course, it’s all academic anyway. Ten to one we’ll be dead before the week is out.”

“No!” Anna said. “There’ll be trouble; there always is, but it’s not ending like that, not now. Not this week. That’s a promise.”

He looked back at her again for a long while; his face suddenly unreadable again, and then finally he said, “You almost make me think there’s a reason I’ve survived in this game for so long.”

“Yes,” said Anna, lifting her head again, the light catching her eyes, because there were some things that were true, even when they might be a lie. “Yes, of course there is, Mr Terrell.”


	10. (No) More Than Love (PG, 1991/1986: Charles Terrell/'Alice', Anna, Jamie Bradley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Terrell makes a temporary escape from politics in memories of an ordinary life he never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1991, 1986. (Charles Terrell, 'Alice', Anna, Jamie Bradley.)
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #26 (Nostalgia) & Passionfruit #25 (But we loved with a love that was more than love)
> 
> Notes/warnings: resistance, secret identity etc.

Charles Terrell had spent the afternoon answering seemingly endless questions about himself, and now he was thankful to be done with it all, heading into the bar in search of a drink. With that accomplished, he turned, leaning against the bar to look for a table, and then lifted his head sharply as a woman in a green coat crossed the room. And that was the trouble with raking over the past, wasn’t it? You couldn’t lay the ghosts it raised again so easily. 

Alice had worn a coat very like that, the first time he’d seen her – bottle green, but with a silver flower-shaped brooch pinned to its collar. That was what he’d been told to look for – how to identify his new resistance contact. He’d knocked her glass over, as carelessly as he could manage, and then apologised and bought her another. The trappings of everyday romance hiding a mere transfer of information. 

Charles had been a minor member of Hallam’s government and in that capacity he’d also worked for the resistance – directly for the moderate Ronald Whittaker and indirectly for Colonel Seaton. It hadn’t usually involved assignations with unknown and attractive women in bars, though. That part had been new.

“Was that deliberate?” Alice had asked him with an amused spark in her eyes as he carefully put the new glass down in front of her. The she smiled; a warm, slightly wry smile. “I don’t mind either way.”

Charles had smiled back, but awkwardly. He was used to lies of most kinds these days, but not this particular pretence. He’d rather, he thought, pass a note to an anonymous figure in an alley and move on, both none the wiser. But it made sense this way – he had to meet her regularly, and it had to look normal and innocent to any watchers. There would be watchers at some point, he knew.

“No, no,” he’d said. “An accident. But if it helps, I’m not sorry for it.” Then he grinned at her, and passed her a folded piece of paper with his telephone number on it: inside it was another, thinner strip of paper that contained a tiny row of code.

She hesitated for nearly a minute, before she smiled again, and pocketed the paper. “Alice,” she’d said, and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” It wasn’t her real name, but it was all he’d ever known her by. 

 

Charles put down his glass on the table in the corner and surveyed the rest of the room. People looked uneasy, which was unsurprising. Overturning a regime like the last was never as simple as it was in stories: ding dong, the witch is dead, and everyone lives happily ever after. Well, not in real life. In real life, there were a whole lot more loose ends to deal with. Probably, given that he might end up as the next prime minister, these people wouldn’t feel any happier if they knew that he was sitting in here, getting maudlin over nothing. 

Well, they didn’t, he thought, and after everything he’d been through, everything they’d all been through, why the hell not, just for one evening?

He let his mind drift back to another meeting – a meal out somewhere; he couldn’t even remember where now. By that point they’d forgotten the purpose of their meeting, or he had. They’d barely noticed the passing of time as they waited for the food to arrive, talking over everything. It was merely an ordinary conversation – they’d talked mostly about the way things used to be, before the fighting had started, before the Emergency Measures, and before Hallam took over.

“None of these permits,” she said. “Or these arrests. Do you think one day it’ll be over?”

He’d remembered then who he was, at least as far as the world was concerned, and, like any good member of the government, told her that Hallam would pull them all through eventually.

Alice had looked surprised for a minute, and then she had smiled and leant forward to put her hand over his. “Let’s hope so, love,” she said earnestly.

When she removed it, Charles found himself left with a small safe deposit key in his hand. He’d felt irrationally furious with her, before the anger died into wry amusement at his own foolishness. But he’d wanted the illusion to be the reality so intensely for a minute or two: he wanted this to be what it appeared, not another game of espionage. He wanted the world where she’d taken his hand only because she wished to, and where he could see her when he chose, not when he was told.

She gave him a curious look, tilting her head fractionally to one side as she watched him. “You’re sure that fish is all right? You look as if something went down the wrong way. Not indigestion, is it?”

“Thanks,” he said, in feigned indignation, before laughing with her. “Just thinking about something.”

She laughed. “That’s not very flattering.”

“It might be,” he told her, catching her gaze and smiling slowly. “It depends what I was thinking, doesn’t it?” 

 

“Mr Terrell,” said someone, interrupting his recollections. “Mr Terrell!”

Charles leant back against the seat and looked up to see Jamie Bradley, one of Colonel Seaton’s assistants, standing there. He crooked an eyebrow upwards in mute enquiry.

“Sir,” Jamie said, but the respect was forced. “Miss Miller asked me to fetch you.”

“What now? Can’t it wait? It’s gone nine, I’ve talked far too much already – can’t she leave me alone for half an hour?”

“Sir,” said Bradley. “That was the message.” Then his annoyance overcame his formality and he added, “I can’t imagine _Anna_ would send for you if it wasn’t important.”

Charles didn’t think she would either, and it was pointless to harbour resentment against Anna only because she’d asked him a hundred questions earlier but hadn’t been able to answer the only one he’d asked her. He gave the younger man a brief grimace of apology and rose with weary resignation.

 

It had been a night like this, the last time he’d seen Alice, he thought as he walked out into the cold alongside Bradley, stubbornly continuing to think about her because none of them could see inside his head; not Hallam, not the security people, and not Seaton, nor any hypothetical future voters, either, thank God. 

Their meetings had been going on for months, and they had reached a point where it was perfectly natural for Charles to walk along with her till their paths diverged, and then to stop, talk a little more, and bend down to kiss her on the cheek when they finally said goodbye. At the same time, he slipped a roll of microfilm into her pocket. It was nothing, nothing at all. They’d hardly make it into a roll call of the great romances of the twentieth century, but it mattered to him and he believed – or hoped – that it mattered to her.

Alice moved away from him, giving her usual cheerful smile in farewell, but there was an underlying sadness in it and he again wanted nothing more than to know how much of what they had was an act, a cover story. He couldn’t ask. The world would have to change dramatically before he could risk such a question.

“Give me a ring,” she said, with another quick smile, and patted his arm. “Let’s not leave it so long next time.”

Charles had nodded, and watched her go, until he decided: to hell with it. There were some things he _could_ ask. He ran after her, catching up swiftly, but out of breath. “Alice,” he said. “How about tomorrow?”

“Oh, love,” she said, and laughed, but it didn’t seem quite as easy as usual. “I can’t tomorrow. I know I said don’t leave it so long, but –”

“I know. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’m free tomorrow. But it’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Alice shook her head at him, and then needlessly straightened his jacket with a tug to the lapel. “Why don’t you have a coat?” she asked. “You must be freezing!” Then she stretched up to kiss him in return. “Not tomorrow,” she said and looked straight up at him. “Soon, though. I’ll let you know.”

That part he knew was a lie, because it was the last time he saw her.

 

“I’m sorry about this,” said Anna, when Charles and Jamie reached her office again. “It’s the Colonel. He needs to see you, and he barely has a minute free tomorrow, so he said if you were still around –”

Charles nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. I hadn’t gone far.”

“I trust I didn’t interrupt anything?” she asked, with a sudden smile.

He followed her out into the corridor; he had to increase his pace to keep up with her. “Nothing at all, Miss Miller. Just dreaming about the way things used to be. You know how it is.”

“I don’t think I do,” she said. “I’m too busy worrying about how we’re going to bring in the changes we need around here.”

Charles shut the door behind him. “Quite right, too. I’d better make you my example in future, hadn’t I?”


	11. The More Things Change (PG, 1991: Charles Terrell, Anna, Edward Woodfield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some people, it seems the rebellion isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 1991. (Charles Terrell, Anna Miller, Edward Woodfield.)
> 
> Prompts: Papaya #7 (I’ve got your back) Passionfruit #2 (Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black)
> 
> Notes/warning: guns, death.

“Mr Terrell,” said Edward Woodfield, holding out his hand to Charles and giving a slight, sideways smile. He had been part of Hallam’s government, and was now what might be called leader of the opposition, though matters were a little too uncertain as yet to resurrect the casual term of days when people let their enemies live. “Congratulations. Prime Minister, eh? Well, look at us both now – who would ever have thought it?”

Charles shook the other man’s hand but then drew back. He’d always known Woodfield had his eye on higher things. When you were both on pretty much the same level, you noticed the people scrambling over the rest to get to the next rung of the ladder, however discreet they were about it. “Temporary measures in both cases, so let’s not get carried away yet. What did you want?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Woodfield, meeting Charles’s quizzical gaze, watching him out of alert, intelligent blue eyes. “Merely to assure you that whatever happens, I and my party will support the return to a democratic system. There will be no further violence.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You say that, and I believe you – as far as that goes personally. The rest of your party, they’re another matter.”

“Think what you like,” said Woodfield. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, and then frowned at the sound of running footsteps outside. “Something going wrong already?” he murmured.

They both turned then as whoever it was now burst in through the door to Charles’s office, violently banging the door back against the wall, as he strode into the room – pointing a gun at them both.

Charles recognised the newcomer as one of Colonel Seaton’s people – Major Harris, or Harrison, something like that. He took in the weapon the man held and stepped half in front of Woodfield. “Stand down, Major. Shoot him and the Colonel’ll have you shot!”

“You know,” murmured Woodfield behind him, “I’m touched, Terrell, truly, but this is your office. I doubt it was me he came for.”

Charles stared back at Major Harrison, who advanced a step further, still holding the gun.

“Don’t move, either of you,” Harrison ordered. “I’m here to see justice done. We need all of you out before we’re done with this, so for crimes against the state –”

The gunshot sounded deafening in the small room. For a moment, Charles simply stood there, blinking in incomprehension that nothing seemed to have happened, and then Harrison fell.

Behind him, Captain Williams, dashed forward to kneel by the body, and Anna was left standing in the doorway, her gun still in hand.

After a frozen moment, Charles shook himself, and moved forward to join Williams at the man’s side, glancing back up at Woodfield. “Woodfield, the phone – we need a doctor!”

For a wonder, Woodfield didn’t argue, but snatched at the receiver on the desk. “Yes, we need medical assistance in here – no, not for Mr Terrell – look, is that doctor still on the premises -?”

“It’s too late,” said Williams to Charles. “I think he’s dead, sir.”

Anna was still watching them from the doorway. “Then get back to the Colonel, Williams. See if he needs any help rounding up the rest.”

“The rest?” said Charles, looking upwards at her in dismay. 

Anna shrugged. “Some people weren’t happy about letting anyone in Hallam’s government go free, let alone getting positions in the new government. Harrison was after you, Robbins – anybody like that still here. The idiot. We said, from the beginning, only Hallam was to be killed, and anyone else who needed to be would be brought to trial. We _agreed_.”

Woodfield put the phone down, before Charles could respond to Anna. “You should do something about your staff. I believe I have just been communicating with a complete imbecile.”

“Ah,” said Charles, his sense of humour resurfacing despite the situation. “I think you must mean Mr Bradley.”

“She said her name was Wendy,” said Woodfield, “and that she didn’t normally answer the phones, but there wasn’t anyone else around because there seemed to be an emergency.”

Charles darted a glance at Anna, who was had remained there, staring downward at Harrison, and then he got to his feet. “Look, Woodfield, get us all some tea or something, can’t you?”

“I am neither your secretary nor your tea-maid,” said Woodfield. 

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Charles said. “But you heard Wendy – there’s an emergency, and I think we all need something, don’t you?”

Woodfield held up a hand and backed away into the adjoining room in search of the kettle. “This once, I suppose. Under protest.”

Charles turned his attention back to Anna, now kneeling down beside the body. She was paler than usual and there was a tightness about her jaw and the set of her shoulders that he didn’t like. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and then crouched back down beside her. “Nothing you can do,” he said. “Anna? You all right?”

She didn’t respond.

“Look, I don’t mean to be insensitive,” said Charles, “but this can hardly be the first time, so –”

Anna turned her head, as if his words were only now getting through. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “Ignore me. He was one of your people. I am sorry.”

Anna shook herself, and put the gun away. “Oh, no. It’s not that – I hardly knew him. I suppose it should be, but – I’d told myself it was over. That there wouldn’t be any more need for that, except if – it was supposed to be over.”

“Well,” said Charles, uncertain what to say. She’d always seemed so self-possessed, and he knew from what he’d heard that she had been a major force in the rebellion for some years. “I can’t be a hypocrite. Given the options, I’m grateful. I’d rather that was him and not me, or even Woodfield.”

She lowered her head and bit back something that might have been a laugh. “I meant to wound if I could, but –”

“That’s the trouble with weapons, isn’t it?” said Charles, and held out his hand to her, to help her up. She ignored the gesture, and stood, crossing back to look out of the door, checking no one else was going to come and try to finish Harrison’s work.

Charles leant back against his desk, and found that he was shakier than he had realised, the knowledge of his narrow escape catching up with him, if still feeling rather unreal. He gripped the edge of the desk with his hands.

“I thought,” said Woodfield, making a return with a battered tea tray and three rather chipped cups, “that the moment called for something stronger than tea.”

Charles grinned and took the proffered drink. “You underestimate yourself, Mr Woodfield. You’d make an excellent tea-maid. Or no – a butler. You’ve missed your calling.”

“Oh, do shut up, Terrell,” said Woodfield. “And, by the way, Miss Miller, thank you for your timely intervention. I seem to be in your debt.”

Charles passed Anna the spare cup. “Well, and as you said earlier, Mr Woodfield – who would have thought it?”


	12. Rebels in Boxes (G, 1991: Charles Terrell, Sally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1991\. Charles Terrell, Sally.
> 
> Papaya #15 (fancy meeting you here); Chocolate #8 (appreciation)

The files were piled away in archive boxes, nine of them in total. They’d been stored in a cupboard in Hallam’s own office. They were probably copies of files held elsewhere – probably – but given what they were, somebody had to go through them, and Charles was used enough to paperwork.

Of course, it was an excuse to have him still here while he, Anna, and the Colonel and various other people went on with talks that seemed to be increasingly serious about making him Prime Minister, at least temporarily. However, if he was here, he was going to sort through these files. Plenty of the discussions didn’t involve him, apparently, and if he was going to wind up getting sent home again, he might as well have done something useful first.

“Would you like coffee?” said a voice from the doorway. “Or tea maybe?”

Charles turned around to see a young woman standing there. He’d seen her around the parliament buildings before, and was fairly certain she was somebody’s secretary. “Don’t tell me the revolution has brought in actual tea or coffee?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I thought that went without saying.”

“Ah,” said Charles, and smiled. “Never known anything else, I expect? You wonder what I’m talking about.”

She shrugged. “Well, once or twice. Best not to ask how, of course.”

“Of course,” said Charles. “Look, whose secretary are you?”

She didn’t answer straight away, as if he’d offended her by not choosing between tea or coffee, or maybe because his assumption was mistaken. Then she said, reluctantly, “Mr Conway’s, but he’s not here. I’m not sure where he is. Somebody said he was shot yesterday, and somebody else said he was locked up.”

Charles sat down on the desk he’d been leaning against. “ _Ah_ ,” he said. “Conway’s secretary. I thought as much.”

“Don’t hold it against me,” she said, but it wasn’t quite a joke. Matters were still too uncertain.

Charles shook his head, and then looked over at her. “And you woke up this morning and thought you might as well still come into work?”

“Well, yes,” she said, raising her head. “What else was there to do? And if they wanted to come after me, I suppose they would wherever I was. Do you think I shouldn’t be here? I _can_ go home.”

“No, no. I meant, of course you did. I wouldn’t expect anything else from Mr Conway’s secretary. I’d thought you were probably Resistance, that was all.”

She moved into the room. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand, sir,” she said. “You’re Mr Terrell, aren’t you? We’ve never met, not properly.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, the thing is, I got a lot of Conway’s paperwork passed on to me and you made some very interesting errors. Could be genuine mistakes, of course, but I always heard Miss Harris down in resources was a terror when recruiting. And, as I said, they were interesting.”

She stared back at him. 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” said Charles, “but I had to check things not just officially but also for the Resistance. Made a few similar ‘errors’ myself. You learn to notice things like that when you do it all the time. Except I had instructions. If you were doing that off your own bat, it was one hell of a risk to take.”

She moved further into the room. “Well, I always thought that if they noticed anything, I just say it was a mistake. Play it innocent, and then the worst that would happen would be that I’d lose my job. It just seemed –” She paused for a moment. “Well, it just seemed worse not to do anything. It was all a bit random, though. A name missing here or there. It’s awful.”

“Yes,” said Charles. “So, then, Miss – what is your name?”

“Oh, everyone calls me Sally.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “They call you that or that’s what you call yourself?”

“Myself,” she said. “Salima. But I’m always Sally.”

“Well, then. Still feeling brave?”

“That depends, sir.”

Charles grinned. “Good answer. See these boxes? They’re full of old files on people who Hallam counted as his most serious or most personal enemies. Most of them’ll be dead, but some of them won’t –”

“And they’re more likely to be purely political prisoners?” she said, catching on immediately. “They could be released.”

Charles nodded. “You have it. So, it’s a bit dusty, but it might make the difference between life and death. I mean, not like the Colonel, who’s gone dashing off to liberate the main Detention Centre, but I expect it’ll matter to the people in these boxes. The tea and coffee can wait, but I suspect they’ve done enough of that.”

“They’d be highly confidential,” she pointed out. “The files. Eyes only, that sort of thing.”

Charles pushed one of the boxes over to her side. “Just check which ones are stamped – like so – that’s for a deceased subject. Put those back in the box for later. Anything else, start a pile here, and once there are enough, I’ll start going through them. I’m not sure who’d be officially allowed to see them, but since the Colonel’s put me in charge of this, let’s assume that I am. And you must have already signed the Official Secrets Act, anyway.”

Sally nodded, and started going through the box. “It wasn’t brave,” she said suddenly, without looking up. “If you were doing the same thing, that was more of a risk.”

“Not really,” said Charles. “Not brave, then. But better than Mr Conway.”

She smiled. “Yes. Not saying much, though, is it, sir?”

They settled into making a start on the first two boxes, Charles glad to have finally settled that little conundrum. It had always seemed odd to imagine someone in Conway’s office working for the resistance. Now he knew who it was, and that it was something else. Or in many ways the same thing, really, when you came down to it. The law of the land had fallen by the wayside and so they’d all had to make their own decisions about which rules to obey and which to ignore; small decisions in some cases, but you couldn’t do right either way, that was the thing. You broke the law, you disobeyed your employer, and if you were in the resistance, maybe you even killed people sometimes. If you didn’t, if you followed the letter of the law, then you ignored the injustice; you let people die. And most of them ended up doing both one way and another, all sitting uncomfortably on the fence. Still, that was trouble for another day – when he was Prime Minister. 

 

Charles realised, as he sorted through it, that the box he’d taken must have the oldest files. He recognised too many of the names. In that early time, before he’d slid back into government along with Whittaker, he’d spent a lot of time being arrested as a precaution and released again, and he’d met plenty of resistance people there – and then there had been others he remembered from the last elected government; people who’d gone down with it. It was unsettling, like raising old ghosts long since laid to rest – Afzal, Jane Howe, the Ivesons, Jack – and it seemed suddenly a sobering unlikelihood that he should still be here.

He stopped, finding it more unnerving than he’d expected, and was relieved to see they’d amassed a reasonable number of the ‘live’ files, for him to abandon the box in favour of glancing through those. After a while, he looked up, and over at Sally, still sorting through the next box. “Want to go with me and see if we can get five people freed? I’ll need to make a couple of phone calls first, but I think we can do it.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” said Sally, trying not to smile too widely. 

Charles straightened the files and reached for the telephone. “Might be almost like being a hero,” he said. “Best go get your coat, hadn’t you?”


	13. Wait and See (G, 1991: Edward Woodfield, John Neville)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new leaders of the Opposition don’t exactly see eye to eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 1991; Edward Woodfield, John Neville (aka, the villains, such as there are any)
> 
> Prompts: Prune #22 (speak softly and carry a big stick)

“Why wait, though?” said John Neville, taking a seat opposite Woodfield in the empty staff room. In the chaos of the last few weeks, they’d acquired a small office building to use as a base. It left much to be desired, but it was a good deal better than some of the alternatives. Woodfield had feared at first that they wouldn’t even be left at liberty, but the rebels – the new government – had decided against locking up everyone in the old regime. It wouldn’t be practical.

Woodfield gave Neville a long, measuring look as he ostensibly relaxed in the chair with a glance of scotch someone had purloined from somewhere, wondering how he was going to keep his second in command from doing something rash, if he was already coming out with suggestions like that. 

“You’re not thinking ahead, John,” Woodfield said. “We share an aim with Seaton and his crew at least in one regard – we want a return to democracy. Hallam’s position had become untenable. And that’s the trouble with a dictatorship – so much resting on one person. Or did you see yourself as his successor?”

“Of course not,” said Neville, and Woodfield wondered in private amusement whether or not that was a lie.

Woodfield took a sip of his drink. “Well, then. Take it from me, this initial government cannot last. It’s likely it will fail even before they manage the promised election – though I’d very much like it to stay on its legs until then. It would be more useful.”

“Eh?”

Woodfield gave a smile. “Ding dong, the witch is dead, and now people expect their problems to be swept away with the old regime. Well, most if not all of those problems remain. Once the general populace have understood that they must put up with rationing for a while longer, and that the energy issue has not been miraculously resolved, and all the rest of it, they’ll want a leader who can promise more effective management of the country. And there, my dear fellow, we’ll be. Ready and waiting with a more realistic offer.”

“Seems a bit nebulous to me,” said Neville. “Seaton’s bloody popular, you know. Anyway, what happens if we don’t get this election you’re so sure we’ll win?”

Woodfield held up a finger. “No, no. I didn’t say we would win that election. It’s the next one, after someone has reluctantly had to raise a motion of no confidence in the government. Do keep up.”

“And if everything does fall apart before then?”

“Oh, that will be more awkward, but it’ll still play out in our favour. You see, either the Colonel must admit that he can’t hold the country together – he’s a solder, you know, not a politician, poor fellow – or he will have to temporarily lead as Hallam did, taking complete power. At which point, we may step in as the champions of freedom and justice etcetera, etcetera. You may then have your way and fight the lot of them.”

“I still think it would be easier if we made a move now, before they establish themselves.”

Woodfield shrugged. “You have a point, of course. That is the danger of letting them get on with it, but I’d really rather not lead a shaky first government. When I get into power, I want to be there long enough to see some proper progress.”

Neville gave a grunt, which didn’t sound as if he was entirely convinced.

“They’re trying to plan for it, too,” added Woodfield. “It’s not enough, though. They can’t sufficiently distance themselves from their own errors, not even with Terrell leading rather than Miss Miller.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Woodfield raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed,” he murmured under his breath, before raising his voice again to answer. “He’s a ready made scapegoat at need. He’s not one of theirs; he’s one of Whitaker’s lot. I still think that’s too nice a distinction for the rabble.”

“I’d be happier with a more active course,” said Neville. “I understand, but I don’t see the point of letting the enemy get too settled in.”

Woodfield sighed. “No. Well, if you want to think of anything to unsettle them, I’m quite happy with that, but let’s be upstanding, law-abiding citizens for the moment. We are lucky to be at liberty, after all. Let us not jeopardise that or the goodwill of our future electorate by any unwise violence. At least, not until there’s call for it.”

Neville only continued frowning. Woodfield gave an inward shrug. As long as Neville held back for the moment and didn’t try to stage a coup within the party, that was about as much as he could ask for. Woodfield thought the rebels were being unrealistic, and he thought everything he had said to Neville was true – self-evident even – but he wanted a return to democracy above all; he wanted to see the laws of the land in place again. He might even want that over and above his wish to be the one leading the government that would accomplish that. And that, Woodfield thought, someone like John Neville would never understand.

“So,” said Neville, whose thoughts had obviously been following a different train, “you’re saying that we don’t need to worry about Terrell?”

That was an interesting question, Woodfield thought, distracted into considering it more closely. He was unsure of the answer himself. Even if Colonel Seaton believed that Charles Terrell was disposable, it didn’t mean it was necessarily true. Charles had hung on to various minor positions in the government all these years, despite questionable connections and, it now seemed, active work for the Resistance.

“My dear fellow,” Woodfield said, not bothering to avoid the condescending tone that he knew Neville detested, “don’t be naïve. We worry about _everyone_. That’s how one stays in the game.”


	14. Faulty Connections (PG, 1991: Anna, Louise Murray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liesa and Anna have the opposite problem when it comes to family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mar 1991; Liesa (Louise Murray), Anna. 
> 
> Prompts: Coffee #12 (frame), Prune #28 (don’t even think about it) + Malt – PftH (Liesa : I knew that already); Malt – Ghosts of the Past #3 – a missed opportunity
> 
> Notes/warnings: discussion of loss/family issues. (In which it is implied that Anna may be Charles's daughter.)

“Any luck?” Anna asked, putting a hand on Liesa’s arm. As Liesa glanced at her, she gave a wry, fleeting smile. She’d guessed Liesa’s answer already; it was probably written on her face.

Liesa shook her head. “No,” she said. “No luck. A dead end, that’s all.” She tried not to be too short with her; she knew that Anna’s interest and sympathy were genuine, but she still wished she wouldn’t. She could talk to Anna about most things, but not this. It was hard not to get angry with her at times like this, and Liesa wished Michael wasn’t away, but by all accounts he was currently off being heroic in Newcastle.

“I’m sorry,” said Anna, sitting sideways on the nearest chair. “But, look, are you sure? When you’re trying to find people, the smallest thing can be a clue.”

Liesa hesitated, but she did need to talk to somebody, so she sat down beside her. “My aunt lived there several years ago with my two cousins, that much was true. But it seems they left about three years ago. They didn’t leave any address and they must have gone in a hurry. They left a lot behind, the neighbours said. You know as well as I do what that sort of thing means.” 

“Is that something of theirs?” Anna said, nodding towards the photograph frame in Liesa’s hand. She leant forward. “May I?”

Liesa passed it over. It was an informal, slightly faded picture of a group in a garden, few other details clear beyond grass and a wall behind them. “I’m not sure who everybody is, but I think that must be Aunt Rachel with my oldest cousin – Anthea – and I think those two are my parents. I’m not sure who the other two are.”

“I’d say that’s something,” said Anna, “but it probably isn’t when you were hoping to find them, not their picture.”

Liesa looked away. She didn’t want to be angry with Anna; she knew her friend had her own issues, but it was impossible not to feel some resentment when Anna had family she kept refusing to see. It was understandable while they were in the Resistance – necessary, even – but now, not to get in touch with her parents and her brothers was hurtful and stupid. They would find her anyway sooner or later – the more the media started to reappear, the more mentions and images there would be of Anna and they’d see her, and what the hell would they think? It wasn’t that they’d ever treated her badly as far as Liesa knew, and Anna still seemed to care about them deeply. Frankly, Liesa could have shaken her, because that wasn’t even the whole of it. They weren’t the only people Anna was refusing to acknowledge.

She’d asked her before, of course. There wasn’t much they hadn’t talked about during midnight watches and days locked down in various places, but all she could get out of her was her insistence that _Catherine_ was Elizabeth and Peter Miller’s daughter, not Anna – Anna had done things Catherine would never do. Liesa thought that viewpoint was essentially flawed, but she could understand it. They’d all done things they wouldn’t have before they joined the Resistance. Liesa reasoned that they were soldiers in a war, and felt that everything she’d done had been within the rules of that. It didn’t stop some of it from waking her in the night, but if she had relatives left, she wouldn’t hide from them for the shame of it, the way Anna seemed determined to. One day, Liesa was sure, it would all blow up in Anna’s face, and it was silly not to try and defuse the situation while she could.

“Liesa?” said Anna. Then she handed the picture back. “Oh,” she said, her expression changing. “Is this going to turn into another lecture?”

Liesa shook her head. “There’s no point, is there?”

“No,” said Anna. “Not any more.”

That was the other thing, Liesa thought. Something had happened near the end of last year, something that Anna and Michael didn’t talk about. Liesa was close enough to both of them to have her suspicions, but she had gathered that for Anna whatever it was had put the tin lid on everything: if she might have turned around and at least written to her mother before, she wasn’t going to now. But what she had once told Liesa was that Peter Miller wasn’t her biological father, and she’d said when they won, if they ever did, that maybe if she couldn’t go back, she’d move on; she’d find him. He had Resistance connections, she’d said. He’d be more used to what went on.

“Anna,” said Liesa. “I’ve lost this chance, but you’ve still got one, haven’t you?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Anna said, and stood, brushing down her trousers. “Bloody hell, Liesa. I tell you something stupid in the small hours one night aeons ago and you never forget, do you? I’m sorry about your family, I really am, but that doesn’t mean you get to interfere when it comes to mine – or that there’s any excuse for putting two and two together and making at least sixteen.”

Liesa sighed. “Well, I do remember what you said about him, and I can’t help thinking how much that matches with –”

“I said I might try and find my father – when we were finished. Well, we’re not bloody finished. Give me twenty more years.”

“By which time it’d probably be too late,” said Liesa. She stood, facing Anna. “I don’t know for certain, and I suppose, even if I did, I wouldn’t say anything – but I do think _you_ should tell him before it comes out some way or other. I’m pretty sure Michael wouldn’t be amused.” She couldn’t say it aloud, though: what if she was wrong? Even if she was right, what if someone else heard her? She thought, though, that if she was right, then Charles Terrell ought to know, because it was bound to backlash on him as much as Anna if it ever came out. “Fairer, I mean,” she added. “Safer for everybody. Not for sentimental reasons.”

Anna looked away. 

“Everything comes back to what happened at Salisbury, doesn’t it?” said Liesa. “I wish you two would trust me enough to tell me.”

Anna folded her arms against herself. “I suppose you think I’m mad, don’t you? But it’ll all be all right, Liesa. You play your part and let me get on with mine in my own way – and don’t imagine daft things!”

“Anna –”

Her friend leant forward again, unfolding her arms, and taking hold of Liesa’s hand. “I do trust you. You know that. We both do. It’s grown complicated, that’s all. So, you trust me in return and it’ll be all right.”

“Always,” said Liesa simply, because it was true. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

Anna gave her a sudden smile. “All in all, that’s probably for the best.”


	15. Spreading the News (PG, 1991: Charles Terrell, Jack Brayfield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles catches up with an old acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb/March 1991; Charles Terrell, Jack Brayfield. (Jack appeared previously with Afzal in _The Ravens are Circling_ in Divide & Rule.)
> 
> Prompts: White Chocolate #12 (compassion), Sangria #3 (His wings are clipped and his feet are tied)
> 
> Notes/warning: discussion of death, loss, dystopia.

It had been a long time since Charles had seen Jack Brayfield – over twenty-five years now. Looking at him, he found it hard to recognise the young man he’d known back then, until Jack turned and gave him an unwilling smile and he saw the ghost of his former self echoed in the movement.

“Jack,” Charles said, and held out a hand to shake his.

That done, Jack stuffed his hands back in the pockets of his light-coloured coat. “It was something of a surprise to get a message from you, Charles. What is it you want?”

“I don’t want anything,” said Charles. “I told you it was about Afzal. I’ve been going through some old files of Hallam’s lately. There are a whole bunch of them on the original members of the Resistance, him included.”

Jack turned away from the chill of the wind as they walked along. “Well, I already knew he couldn’t be alive. If he was alive, somebody’d know about it. We’d probably all bloody know about it. But that’s it, isn’t it? He was never the sort to keep his head down, and here we are.”

“I know,” said Charles. “I just thought you’d want to know what happened. If you don’t, that’s fair enough. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed –”

Jack looked across at him. “Go ahead.”

“I know it’s not as if anything makes it all that much better, but they didn’t get him again, you know. He wasn’t shut up, he wasn’t tortured. They shot him in some skirmish, back in ’66. By mistake, looks like. They’d have wanted him alive, if they could have got him.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Jack. “It’s not much of a consolation.”

Charles pulled a face. He couldn’t argue. “I wasn’t sure if anybody else would know to tell you, not after all this time. I thought I should.”

Jack nodded. “Yes. Thank you for that much. I’m surprised you’d bother, to be honest, after the way I let him down.”

“You wanted to stay alive,” said Charles. “I can’t say anything about that, can I? Maybe in some ways, I made the same choice, and more than once. I’m not proud of it, but we’re hardly the only ones.”

“I never wanted to fight,” Jack said with a shrug. “I didn’t want Hallam taking over the country, but I didn’t know whether that might be what we needed in the short run. I couldn’t see that killing other people was going to solve anything. And I didn’t want to lose my job, let alone go to prison or get shot. I was scared, so I sat there and wrote whatever I was told to write. But that wasn’t something Afzal could do.”

Charles gave a slight, soft laugh. “I know. I spent a few weeks locked up with him, after all.”

“Oh, God,” said Jack. “All right, I despise myself for all of it. Just – tell me where he is, and I can at least try and see if I can get in touch with his family, though goodness only knows where they are now.”

Charles darted a glance at him, before he realised what Jack meant. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “That’s why I asked you to meet me here. There’s a cemetery further along, and he’s there, if you want to put it like that. There’s no gravestone, but there’s a mass grave for some of the rebels, at least according to the paperwork.”

“Why does that make a difference?” Jack asked, and it sounded as if he was speaking more to himself than to Charles. “Funny, though, but it does.”

Charles didn’t reply, merely leading the way along the pavement until they reached the gate of the cemetery. “You can write whatever you want now, you know. I think you should.”

“What?” 

Charles hunched into his coat against the chill of the damp. “Well, come on, the only paper still going at the moment is the official mouthpiece of the late government. It’s about time some of the others came back into being, don’t you think? Or radio. You know.”

“Oh, so you _did_ want something,” said Jack. “You bastard, Charles. You lot are all the same.”

Charles gave a smile. “No, no. The thought occurred, that’s all. Why not?”

“I think,” said Jack, “that I may have forfeited my turn, you understand?”

Charles gave a slight grimace of acknowledgement, but said, “Well, that’s an attitude I’m not sure I can agree with, but I understand. Look, not today, of course, but some other day – think it over. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” said Jack wryly. “I was always better at the thinking than the doing.”


	16. Best Left Unsaid (G, 1991: Charles Terrell, Liz Cardew, Sally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a perfectly straight-forward question...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 1991 (Charles Terrell, Liz Cardew, Sally). 
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #11 (confusion), Papaya #14 (don’t let them get away)
> 
> Notes/warnings: usual general dystopian backstory (which involves ableism). Originally written purely to introduce Liz Cardew.

“It’s nice to see you again, Charles,” Liz Cardew said, as she stepped into the office. “I was thinking I should talk to someone in authority, anyway. It didn’t cross my mind it would be you.”

Charles stood, and rounded his desk to meet her, holding out a hand to shake hers. Liz was followed in by Sally, who was currently acting as his unofficial secretary.

“Mr Terrell, Dr Cardew is here,” Sally said, somewhat belatedly.

“Yes, thank you, I had noticed.” Then he turned back to Liz. “Dr Cardew is an old friend of mine.”

Liz raised an eyebrow, watching him. “Would you put it that strongly?”

“Acquaintance, then,” said Charles. “Liz, this is Sally. She’s another very helpful person.”

Sally smiled and then retreated to her own desk.

“Well, before you start on whatever it is you’ve brought me here for,” said Liz, taking a seat at Charles’s desk, “I’ve a few things I want to say to you. I daresay you’ve all got a million and one things to do, but people’s welfare is too important to ignore. We’ve got into a good number of the detention centres already, but that’s just the start – there’s a huge problem to be dealt with. You’re looking at a potential disaster that could bring you down before you even begin.”

Charles sat back down at his desk, and crooked an eyebrow, waiting for her to go on. Despite her subject matter, he bit back a smile.

“Medical care for the elderly, for those with chronic conditions has been getting increasingly limited for two decades – well, limited is an exaggeration, isn’t it?” said Liz. “We all know what’s been going on. Anyone labelled as not useful enough gets killed, one way or another. It’s been wrapped up in other words for too long. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are thousands of people out there with such conditions, kept out of the attention of the authorities, smuggled out of the country even. Whatever state affairs are in, you won’t have anything approaching the sort of budget you’d need to address them properly. Hallam dealt with the problem by trying to make people disappear, but I trust you won’t want to do that?”

Charles had to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” she said, leaning forwards with a frown. “Charles!” Then she sat back in her chair, and put a hand to her head. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Don’t tell me. That’s what you wanted to see me about. Well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Charles nodded, and gave her a grin. “We want to establish an emergency medical committee to address the immediate need and to look into the extent of the problem, costs, and possible solutions. I thought of you immediately.”

“I don’t know,” she said, more cautiously.

“Well, I’d like you to consider it. You’ve already been looking into the numbers, I know – you gave me the figures to pass onto the Resistance. I hadn’t forgotten.”

Liz sighed. “Estimates, really. As good as useless. This committee of yours is going to have to collate information from the detention centres and – I’m talking myself into it again, aren’t I?”

“I know you must be busy,” he said. “If you’ll consider it, or suggest some possible candidates, I’d be grateful. I’ve put together some preliminary papers. Have a look at that, find all my errors, and then let me know.”

Liz nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Anyway, what did you think I wanted that you had to read me a lecture before you even let me speak?” said Charles.

“Well, you can’t blame me for being wary. The last time you asked me for help, I had to dispose of a body!”

“Walls have ears round here,” said Charles, starting violently enough to knock a pencil off the desk. “Liz!”

She rubbed her forehead again. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was assuming we were finally allowed to talk about things in a civilised manner again.”

“Yes,” said Charles. “Maybe. But that’s not the sort of thing that ever goes down well in casual conversation, is it?” He glanced over at Sally. “Neither of us killed anyone, before you start to worry.”

Liz sighed. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. And I will think it over. It’s all been rather – oh, I’m just angry, really. At what we’ve all allowed to go on, I suppose.”

“Which is why I want you to come on board and change that,” said Charles, and then held up his hands at her look. “All right, I won’t say anything more.”

Liz nodded. “Anyway, how are you?”

“Alive,” said Charles, rising from his chair. “About to get very busy, too, I should think. In the meantime, Sally and I have been working on some filing as my official reason for hanging about the place.” He gestured over to the other table, still holding the boxes. “Some of Hallam’s files. Sorted now into subjects still living, those who aren’t, and those we don’t know. Sally’s trying to find out about the unknowns – might cross into your territory if you’ve been in the detention centres these last few days.”

Liz followed Charles across, looking at the piles of card folders. “This can’t possibly be all of them.”

“Oh, no,” said Charles. “Only a select few of Hallam’s more personal enemies. I suppose someone close to him thought they needed particular monitoring. Seen as threats to state security, I imagine.”

Charles left Liz standing by the old files, and crossed back to the shelves to pick up the folder he needed to give her. He handed it over. “Read that, and let me know as soon as you can.”

Liz put the folder down on top of the nearest box of files, flicking through it. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. And if you don’t mind, I really do need to go.” She picked up the folder, holding it against her as she walked out.

“Now, where were we?” said Charles to Sally.

Sally got up, and edged over to examine the box of files, the one Liz had been standing close by. She gave Charles an uncertain, quick look. “Mr Terrell, she took the top file.”

“What?” Charles turned, his face screwed up in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. Perhaps one of us moved it.”

Sally shook her head. “I thought I saw her. So I looked and, see, that top file was the last Foreign Secretary and now it isn’t. I’m not sure she didn’t take more than one, too.”

“But why?” said Charles, checking through the files himself. “Why the hell should Liz Cardew –?” 

It wasn’t as if she could have known Iveson, he thought. Liz was too young – he was pretty sure she’d have been ten at the most back then. Then he caught up with himself and darted across to the phone, calling reception. “Has Dr Cardew left? Good. When she gets to you, please tell her to come back up – something else has cropped up, and it’s urgent.”

Sally watched him as he put the phone down. “Sorry, sir.”

“No,” said Charles. “You’re very helpful, and I should learn to be a damned sight more careful. It’s like Liz said – thinking now it’s all over, you don’t have to do that any more. All this freedom going to my head. But, of course, nothing’s over yet.”

“I don’t understand why those files, though,” said Sally, still going through them, just to be absolutely sure. “That box has the deceased subjects, for sending to the archive. What use could any of them be to anyone? I suppose it could have been an accident, but it didn’t look like it.”

Charles shook his head. “No,” he said. “But why? What the hell was she thinking?”

“Well, in a minute, sir,” said Sally, “you can ask her.”

Charles sighed heavily. “Oh, yes. But do I want to hear the answer?”


	17. [Little By Little - 1991] (G, 1991, Charles Terrell, Liz Cardew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble, from the drabble chain _Little By Little_ , as it fills the gap here.

“But why didn’t you just ask me?” said Charles over a cup of tea and the files spread out on the desk between them.

Liz shrugged. “Too many years keeping quiet about my past – my parents. Secrecy’s a hard habit to break. But I _did_ ask, you know. In a roundabout way, but you told me you didn’t know anything.”

“No,” Charles said, his face furrowing in his frustration. “I don’t. But I bet Whittaker did. If I’d known, I’d have put you onto him.”

Liz tapped her cup with her fingertips, her smile wry. “Too late, then – as usual.”


	18. Recommendation (G, 1991: Charles Terrell, Louise Murray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles makes a request of Liesa and gets considerably more than he bargained for in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 1991; Charles Terrell, Louise Seaton (Liesa), meeting for the first time.
> 
> Coffee #6 (jewel), Papaya #20 (you remind me of someone), Chocolate #10 (awe) + Malt (PFtH: Charles : there is only one me in the world)

“Mrs Seaton,” Charles said, slightly out of breath as he reached her. He wanted a word with her, so when he’d spotted her coming out of one of the offices he’d hurried down the corridor faster than was probably dignified. “Do you have a moment?”

She turned in surprise, looking back at him with dark eyes, searching his features more closely than he thought was warranted.

“I’m Charles Terrell,” he added, embarrassed, in case he’d somehow said something wrong already. “I know we haven’t been introduced, but I expect you must know who I am by now.”

She was still staring at him, and he reminded himself that he was going to be Prime Minister. He couldn’t blame people for wondering why when they met him.

Mrs Seaton gave a smile. “Yes, of course I do,” she said. “And as for a moment, I came here to see Michael – the Colonel – but he’s not here, so I can give you all the time you want.”

Charles thanked her and led her into the nearest empty office – there were still a good many of them as yet. “It’s only a small thing,” he assured her. “Not political, I promise.” He hesitated before continuing, catching her watching him again, and feeling unsettled by her attention. He coughed, and carried on: “Anyway, the thing is, even though I seem to be getting half a dozen secretaries of one sort or another, I don’t get to choose any of them.” Then he stopped, realising how that might have sounded. “Which is fair enough, obviously. It’s how it goes, and being in power’s a balancing act. It’s just that it occurred to me earlier that you might not have found yourself a secretary yet and, if so, there’s someone I’d like to recommend.”

“Oh?” said Louise Seaton softly, and folded her arms.

Charles leant on the desk. “It’s not personal, either,” he said, suddenly considering the possibility that his request might be interpreted in that light, and colouring at the idea. “It’s just that I’ve got a temporary secretary helping me out and she’s done some sterling unofficial work for us, all off her own bat, and I’d like to put in a word for her with someone.”

Mrs Seaton laughed, and Charles tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow in enquiry.

“Well, you’re going to be the Prime Minister,” she said. “You don’t sound like it, Mr Terrell. And I hadn’t even thought about me having a secretary. It seems far too odd.”

Charles gave a relieved smile himself. “And you’re wife of the Head of State,” he pointed out. “Even if you don’t want to have much of a public role yourself, you’ll need a secretary to field all the invitations and requests you’ll be getting – to open this, or visit that hospital. It will happen, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “It still seems strange to me. I’ve always been one of the fighters – a runaway, a rebel. Not the sort of person who gets official invitations.”

“So,” said Charles, “to return to my point, you’ll need a secretary, and I know exactly the person.”

Mrs Seaton leant against the wall and gave him an amused, questioning look.

“Yes, I know,” he said, “you’ll want to interview a few people, of course, but if you’re amenable to the suggestion, then I’ll ask Sally if she wants to try for it. I didn’t until now because I had a feeling she’d be very interested, and it seemed unkind to raise her hopes until I’d spoken to you.”

She smiled again, and gave a nod. “I’ll be happy to see her. I can’t really say anything more. Anna or Michael may have someone in mind.”

“I’d think that position at least would be your choice,” he said, and then moved on quickly in case she thought he was being too critical. “Thank you, Mrs Seaton.”

“Liesa,” she said. “Please.”

“Well, is there anything I can do for you?”

She drew in her breath and then gave him another hard stare. “I think there might be.”

“Hmm,” he said, watching her in return. “Is there something on my face? Tear in my jacket?”

“I’m sorry?”

He told himself he should stop being so on edge, but there had been so many changes, so many new people, so many things to worry about and he couldn’t help reading too much into small things sometimes. “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s only that you seemed to be looking at me funny. Mind, I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Oh,” said Liesa, “I’m sorry. It’s just – you remind me of someone, you see.”

Charles had to grin. “Really? Well, far as I know, I’ve no secret twin. Nobody at all, in fact. Well, I suppose my sister might possibly still be around. I don’t know.”

“It’s like that, isn’t it?” said Liesa, her tone matter of fact, but not unsympathetic. “Anyway, I was also wondering if I can trust you with my question, but I think as Prime Minister it probably concerns you as much as Michael. You see, Michael and I are staying in Hallam’s house at the moment. It’s –” Liesa hesitated as she searched for the words she wanted. “Well, it’s definitely utilitarian. He might have been a murdering bastard, but he wasn’t a hypocrite that way. There’s nothing in the place but what was needed. And – well – they say he had the crown jewels broken up and sold off for his projects.”

“Not much use for them for anything else by that point,” said Charles with a shrug. “As far as I know, that’s true. What about it?”

Liesa gave him yet another look and then opened up her left hand to reveal a large diamond in her palm. “There was just one thing. This. I imagine it must have been part of that, so it must belong to the nation – the government – India - somebody.”

Charles stared. Diamonds weren’t something that Charles had ever thought about or previously seen in real life. If he had given the matter any consideration, he’d have said he preferred jewels with a bit more colour and life to them. Diamonds seemed a little too cold. This one, when Liesa moved it, had an elusive fire inside – and it was large enough for him to suspect he must know what it was. He stared again, finding he was holding his breath. 

“Bloody hell,” he said. “That’s not – but I suppose it must be – Is that the koh-i-noor?”

Liesa gave a funny little smile. “I don’t know what that is. Maybe? I just want it not to be my responsibility as soon as possible.”

“I think it must be,” said Charles. It was stupid; he didn’t quite dare reach out and touch it, as if it would be sacrilegious or something. Of all the awkward things in the world to still be here, he thought with resignation. “I wonder why he kept it like that. It doesn’t seem like him. Hardly seems the sort to worry about the curse, either.” Neither could he imagine Hallam worrying too much over the ethics of which country it actually belonged to. Hallam had been the ‘finder’s keepers’ type.

Liesa, being a rebel, had learned to be almost as pragmatic as Hallam in her own way. “Maybe he wanted insurance – an escape route.”

“This is what you wanted to speak to the Colonel about?” Charles said, beginning to recover his breath again properly. “I don’t think I’d better interfere.”

“Well, I don’t want to walk around with it for hours until he comes back! You must at least know of a safe in the building, surely?”

Charles nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, Mrs – er, Liesa. Of course you can’t keep that on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

Liesa held it out to him.

“Are you going to trust me with a thing like that?” he asked, not yet taking it. “This is only the first time we’ve spoken.”

Liesa smiled again. “It’s like I said. You remind me of someone. And, anyway, Anna trusts you.”

“Ah,” said Charles and stood up, cautiously taking the gem from her. It was oddly fitting that she’d been the one to find it, he thought. Wasn’t it always the queen consort who had to wear it, to avert the curse? Or maybe that was some other jewel or object; it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d thought about for years.

“Besides,” said Liesa, with a sudden, more impish smile, “if you’re likely to run off with something like that, better we find out now before we let you have the country.”


	19. Snowflakes (PG, 1991: Anna, Charles Terrell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Strange things happen to people who go out into the snow with me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 1991, Anna Miller and Charles Terrell.
> 
> Prompts: Passionfruit #27 (We must insist that the world is what we have always taken it to be), Papaya #21 (on second thought) + Malt (“Freaky Weather” prompt)
> 
> Notes/warnings: ghost stories, references to the (17th C) Monmouth Rebellion.

“Time to go,” said Charles, crossing to the window of the office and shifting the blind to peer out. “And, look, it’s snowing. That settles it. Anna?”

She nodded, and locked away a file in the drawer before following him to the door. “Mind,” she said to him, “you’ll have to be careful. Strange things happen to people who go out into the snow with me.”

“That a threat?”

Anna gave a tired smile, mostly to herself; the light wasn’t good in the corridor. “More of a promise,” she said. “You’re supposed to ask me what I mean. It’s an odd story.”

“I see,” said Charles. “I’m sorry. You’d better tell me.”

“Before we get outside,” Anna agreed. “That’s what I thought. You see, there was one time, a few years ago, when I was down in the West Country. I was supposed to meet someone, sound them out, and then rendezvous with the local group, except, as it turned out, the person in question had changed their mind and gone running to the authorities. Luckily, though, a couple of the members of that group kept their heads, and warned me in time. I wound up hiding in a closed down pub in a nearby village, with one of their people.”

“And it started snowing?”

“It did. Luckily we got there just as it started and not any later. Can’t go running about in the snow when you’re trying to hide. It’s all right if it’s enough to cover your tracks, but not so much a light fall in Somerset in March. Funny thing was, it must have been a freak storm, because everywhere else round there only had some sleet.”

“Weather’s like that sometimes.”

“Anyway, there we were in this boarded up pub for the night – three or four centuries old, rotting away, snow falling, and then Ben – that’s what I’m calling him – started telling a tale about how it was haunted by a Monmouth rebel.”

“Any self-respecting pub has a ghost, you know.”

Anna smiled. “Oh, I know. And down there, if it’s not a Monmouth rebel, it’s a Roundhead or Hanging Judge Jeffreys himself. Anyway, you can imagine the kind of thing: young labourer caught up in the rebellion who wound up being hanged, drawn, and quartered, with the quarters sent back home to the village for display. And now, they say, he appears on particularly stormy nights, in one of the front bedrooms, standing at the window, as if he’s trying to signal to someone. Several regulars used to swear they’d seen him, and that it foretold terrible things.”

“Well, they would,” said Charles. “It’s all that cider.”

She smiled again, as they reached the lobby. “Well, obviously, I told Ben to shut up and go get some rest while I kept watch, and I’d wake him in a few hours, and we could swap over.”

“And then you saw something white and you’d swear it wasn’t the snow?”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “You’re a dreadful audience, do you know that? I don’t think I could say that I _saw_ anything. Snow’s funny, though. Everything looks lighter than it ought to. But I’ve spent the night in some strange places, and I’ve had to hide before, and that night, I kept hearing things, getting that feeling you do when you’re not alone. I searched it over as best I could without advertising my presence – I had a torch – but I didn’t see anything, not even a mouse or a rat. Anyway, my time was up and I went to wake Ben so he could go and keep an eye out while I finally got some sleep.”

“And?” said Charles, as they got outside into the snow that had already turned to sleet. He pulled his coat closer round him. “Or was that it?”

Anna shook her head. “When I woke in the morning, the snow had gone – and so had Ben.”

“Where was he?”

“No, really, I don’t know. It might as well have been a ghost that stole him away. I suppose that the snow merely melted and he took the opportunity to go; leave the resistance. I met up with the rest of the group later and they hadn’t seen him, either. They weren’t even sure he was with them. But it happens. It’s scarier than ghosts, isn’t it?”

Charles frowned over it. “He disappeared? In the middle of the night in some old pub that must have had rotten floorboards and a cellar or two?”

“Look, I woke up that morning with him gone, and every reason to be paranoid about it. Believe me, I searched that place! He wasn’t there! I did _not_ leave a man languishing down in some closed off room or cellar –”

“Slowing rotting away, cursing you no doubt, his bones lying –”

“Thank you,” said Anna. “No!”

“Then maybe he went out, trying to find some water or something, and you abandoned him lying out somewhere on a freezing morning –”

“What, he got eaten by something nasty in the Quantocks?”

Charles shrugged. “Beast of Bodmin?”

“Bit far for it,” said Anna. “No. Either the ghost got him, or he ran home, and I know which I think, but it makes a good story, doesn’t it?”

Charles gave her a smile. “Oh, I could give you a better one. See, this Monmouth rebel, well, he’d be bound to have a bit of sympathy for another rebel fugitive, wouldn’t he? Leads you to his place, keeps you safe for the night – gone again in the morning. And otherwise, what, there’s a Resistance member that you don’t know anything about? I thought that was impossible!”

“You’re not serious?” she said, turning her head to get a look at his face in the lamplight.

Charles laughed. “No. Not serious, but I suppose you can’t always rule out miracles, can you?”


	20. Fighting Folly (PG, 1991: Ella Gabell, Clive Procter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ella’s curious as to why Dr Procter doesn’t seem his usual self this morning…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September 1991. (Ella Gabell & Clive Procter.) More characters who never got to appear enough because I disappeared into the backstory and never came back.
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #4 (frustration); Passionfruit #5 (Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain)
> 
> Notes/warning: again, general dystopian backstory.

Ella walked in through the door to the meeting room with a bundle of card files in her arms, ready to start the day. “Good morning, Dr. Procter.”

Clive Procter was sitting alone at the long table, but he took a moment before he troubled himself to even look up at her. “Miss Gabell.”

“Something wrong?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she deposited the files onto the table. She noticed that he was nursing a glass of scotch. “Bit early in the day for that, isn’t it? We’ve got all this to get through, you know.”

He leant back in his chair. “Ah, yes. Our vital work here. The Colonel himself came by a few minutes ago to see how we were progressing. And then do you know what he wanted to know?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, so go on.”

“Are we absolutely sure there’s no use in pursuing Hallam’s project? Given all that’s been invested in it, is it really so worthless compared to, say, trying to build hydroelectric stations? And so it begins.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, pulling out the chair beside him at an angle, and sitting on it. It had taken the two of them a while to get used to each other – Clive Procter was old school in every way, while Ella was an ex-resistance member more than half his age – but she’d learned to have respect for him even aside from his standing in his field. She watched him, puzzled by his behaviour. She felt as if she’d been made a fool of somewhere down the line.

Procter stared down at the liquid in the glass. “No. Neither do I.”

“Well, come on,” said Ella. “Either explain or just get on and help me go through this stuff.” She paused, and gave him an enquiring look. “Or do I need to fetch us both some coffee first?”

Clive gave a small smile and released his hold on the glass. “There’s no need. I’m quite sober, to my regret.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” he said, giving a slight sigh, and straightening himself in the chair. “It’s merely… this isn’t the first time this has happened. I had hoped for better things from you people. Some measure of sanity at least. But, no, somebody still thinks it would be a good idea to keep that damned project going.”

“Surely the Colonel hasn’t asked us to –?”

Procter shook his head. “Oh, no. No. But he asked again – hypothetically speaking – if there was any use in it. And there are pressure groups demanding that we not abandon the work that’s been completed. Easier for a politician to offer false hope than to admit there is none. Maybe it’s better that way. Can’t have people panicking.”

“Yes, but what does this have to do with you” – Ella hesitated, looking for the right phrase – “moping about in here?

Procter tapped his fingers lightly against on the rim of the glass. “Yes. I do apologise. It’s only that last time I was asked that particular question by the nation’s leader, I was imprisoned for giving the wrong answer. I suppose that’s why I seem to have overreacted this morning.”

“I see,” said Ella. “I’m sorry.” Incidents like that had happened to too many people, but it didn’t lessen the impact on an individual.

“I’m not boasting,” he added, evenly. “I had been working in the place for days, going over the whole bloody concept from every possible angle, and I simply had nothing else _to_ say by that point. No matter what they did, I couldn’t manage anything more. And, you know, odd as it sounds, I think that for a moment Hallam was almost grateful for the truth. 

“It had never happened to me before, that kind of thing, not really. My expertise was in demand; I was apolitical – in theory. I suppose worse has happened to you?”

Ella shrugged. “Some pretty bad things, but I never got caught, no. Consider me thankful for small mercies.”

“I was, I confess, terrified,” said Procter. “In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. I seemed to have gone beyond that point. Of course, I was released after a couple of weeks but I – I shouldn’t wish to repeat the experience.”

Ella looked at him, as if the record of that incident would now somehow be visible on his face, but he looked the way he usually did: impenetrable and impeccable, with a bland expression belied by sharp blue eyes and the edge of a mocking smile around playing his mouth.

“We need to work with our actual options,” said Procter. “We cannot, simply cannot, afford to pour any more money into a project that will gain us nothing in terms of fuel or energy.”

Ella began to flick through the files. “Well, don’t worry. We may have a long way to go, but the Colonel isn’t Hallam.”

“No,” said Procter thoughtfully. “He could, I think, be worse, if he chose. Still, as you say, Miss Gabell, we have work to do.”

“Yes,” said Ella. “We bring him those options – the real ones – and that’ll keep the other old phantom away.” She wondered, though, herself, because as Procter had said, a politician needed to please people and, unlike Hallam, Colonel Seaton wasn’t a dictator. He had an election to face in the upcoming weeks and the continuing stupidity of people could never be underestimated.

“Let us hope so.”

She turned with a sudden, fierce light in her eye. “No, Dr Procter, we bloody well _make_ it so.”


	21. Prime Minister's Question Time (G, 1992: Charles Terrell/Marian Dalton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Terrell reverses the practice of the past and uses official business as a cover for something more personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early 1992, Charles Terrell, Marian Dalton (Alice). 
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #30 (joy); Passionfruit #14 (summon a vision and declare it pure)
> 
> Notes: Again, with HotR being fragmentary, most of the plot covered in the episode guide happens between the initial pieces and before these last three pieces.

It wasn’t anything special on the face of it – only the sort of official visit one would expect the Prime Minister to make. Charles Terrell met with a group of local businessmen in the Tyne area, and talked over issues of power, shipping, steel and coal, and then went on to meet staff at the hospital who’d taken in most of the victims from Hallam’s northern ‘Power Centre’ last year. They wanted, understandably, to talk about Arran (as the Colonel was still popularly known), and what he’d done that day. He visited local sites, admired the Tyne Bridge, and spent a short while laying flowers on the new memorial dedicated to the victims of the Northumberland Street bombing, one of the worst instances of the internal violence of the last few decades.

In the evening, he rounded off the visit with a talk to the Freedom Party members – former Resistance members – and spoke about rebuilding the country, and that their work wasn’t finished, which no doubt wasn’t what many of them wanted to hear. Most of them would probably rather have swapped him for Colonel Seaton if they could have done.

He kept his mind on all these things throughout the day. It was only when he stepped down from the dais in the hall hired for the occasion, that he allowed himself to begin looking for her, for ‘Alice’. He’d confirmed Anna’s information about her since, but that didn’t mean she would be here. If she wasn’t, all his insistence on making this visit ahead of other areas of the country would have been wasted, and serve him right.

He shook various people’s hands and did his duty while discreetly searching for her, and beginning to conclude that she had kept away. It was only what he’d feared. He’d never had any assurance that she felt the same as he did about their previous meetings.

“Mr Terrell.”

He swung round, recognising the voice. It was Alice. She’d arrived beside him while he was talking to yet another dignitary whose name he hadn’t caught. 

“I think you wanted to speak to me?” she said.

Charles had been planning what to say since before they set out for Newcastle and reminding himself to call her Marian, but taken off-guard, he turned, and only said, “Alice!”

“Yes,” she said, and a familiar amused note crept into her voice. “Although strictly speaking that isn’t my name.”

He gave a laugh, and steered her off to the side. “No. Of course. But – you’re real. I mean, you’re here – I trust you’re well?”

“I’ve always been real,” she said, still sounding amused. “Perhaps we should talk somewhere a little more private?”

Charles nodded, but pulled a wry face. “Impossible,” he told her. “There’s always someone hanging around, listening. Some of them even get paid to do it. You’d think I was important.”

“Well, we can try,” she said, and led him into one of the adjoining rooms, a small, empty office. She switched on the light as he closed the door, and then she watched him, both of them hesitant to speak. 

“I thought about writing,” she said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Once we’d won. But it seemed so silly – writing to the prime minister to ask if he remembered me.”

“Not silly at all,” Charles said. “I wish you had.”

“I still think it would have been odd.”

Charles thought about what to say, and resurrected remnants of the speech he’d planned. “I valued our meetings. You evidently don’t realise how much. I wanted to thank you for that, I suppose. To see you again – see you were well. When I was instructed to meet a different contact, I assumed you must have been killed.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, not quite looking at him. “I am sorry about that, Charles.” 

He realised again how little he knew about her; even her name was something he’d only learned recently. He coughed, and tried to lighten the tone. “I had to go to the newsagents. Buy the official paper, cigarettes I don’t smoke, and a bag of bull’s eyes. It wasn’t the same.”

Marian gave an uncertain smile. “You see, I hibernated.”

“I’m sorry?”

She laughed. “Haven’t you heard it put like that? That’s what we used to call it. Lying low, then.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, I’m relieved it wasn’t anything worse.”

“I was a go-between,” she said, “if needed, but mostly I provided a safe house –”

“Yes, I heard that’s what you’d been doing up here.”

Marian looked at him. “I was supposed to be someone who kept under the radar, that was the whole point. What we were doing – it wasn’t purely professional any more, was it?”

“Not after the first five minutes,” he said, and saw her relief, matching his own. He didn’t know if he smiled at her or if his reaction to her statement was only inward, but he was all smiles there. Nothing else mattered, not what had happened, what might or might not happen in the future; that wasn’t the point. He hadn’t been mistaken. The one thing he’d held to and feared was only illusion had been reality after all. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and gave her a grin. “Alice.”


	22. Whatever is true, whatever is right (PG, 1986-1992: Marian Dalton/Charles Terrell, Anna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tries to do what is right, what is practical – but never only what is useful at any cost. That’s their philosophy, not hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1986-1992, Marian Dalton/Charles Terrell, Anna Miller. Marian (Alice)'s story.
> 
> Prompts: Papaya #28 (did I do that?), Passionfruit #19 (Deep roots are not reached by the frost) + Cookie Crumbs (Alternate POV for _(No) More Than Love_ & _Prime Minister’s Question Time_.)
> 
> Notes/warnings: general dystopia backstory, including ableism, divorce, resistance, death.

Marian pulled on her coat and went out for a walk, closing the door firmly and carefully behind her. It was damp and chilly, the sort of weather that clung unhealthily to the lungs, but she’d had enough of the house, and she’d already tidied and cleaned nearly everything she could think of as she turned one particular question over again in her mind.

She had to do it, she told herself. It wasn’t a question any more. It had to be done and delaying the inevitable would only make it harder when the time came and it would allow a greater likelihood of something going wrong before they got that far.

She drew her coat in closer and walked on along the drab terraced street, the green of her coat one vivid stripe of colour in this grey world, like the rebel she was.

She had to go through with this and get in touch with Anna, tell her that while she could of course do tonight, after that Anna had better find someone else to act as a contact for Charles Terrell. Marian had been asked to run a safe house up in the north anyway, now that the divorce had come through. Anna must already be arranging for a replacement, so sooner rather than later shouldn’t be too much trouble for her.

Marian turned a corner, her mind straying to Charles. He was one of Whittaker’s people, and she passed on messages between him and Arran’s group. Which was all very well, but the charade they were engaging in was turning into reality, and that wasn’t practical or safe. Marian gave a half-smile as she thought of it, imagining Anna’s reaction. Since they’d done nothing more than exchange a few chaste kisses on the cheek, Anna would think her ridiculous or quaint for worrying about it. As relationships went, it not only didn’t have a future, it didn’t even have a present. Charles had no idea Marian Dalton existed. To him, she was only Alice.

If that were all, she wouldn’t say anything, but Marian felt sure she wasn’t alone in her feelings. About a month back, they’d met for a walk – an occasion that wasn’t official – under the excuse that if they went any slower at this pretend courtship, they’d stretch credulity. That might be true, but she knew it was an excuse on her part and she’d felt guilty throughout. The business they were engaged in was a matter of life and death and you couldn’t play games with that. He’d been unusually quiet, too, and never repeated the suggestion. She couldn’t be sure that it was for the same reason, but she believed it was. She hoped it was, maybe.

She felt a flicker of anger. After Peter, after Harry, all these years of running errands for the resistance, didn’t she deserve something? And if she lightened Charles’s existence for half an hour or so every other week, if she made him smile, wasn’t it better for the both of them to hang on till the last minute?

“No,” she said, her breath showing white in the air as she spoke aloud. “No.” Whatever either of them thought or felt or thought the other felt, it was a fantasy, wasn’t it? It was an escape for both of them. These days she found that not being Marian Dalton was almost as great a relief as ceasing to be Marian Scott had been, but she wasn’t Alice; she was someone else entirely, with work of her own to do. 

Besides, no matter what she may think, she didn’t know what Charles thought about her. He was a politician, after all, even if only a minor one. He might not be exactly the smooth, suave type by any means, but no doubt he lied as well as the rest of them. He had an odd, quiet charm of his own, too; she’d felt that on their first meeting, and she mistrusted charm on principle.

Marian turned into a lane, cutting through behind the housing estate, and making her way to number thirty on the next road, where she put a note through the door. She didn’t know who lived there, but they’d send the message to Anna, and tomorrow she’d find her waiting outside the school, where they could talk.

With that done, all that was left was for Marian to be the one to play a part and to lie, as tonight she had her last meeting with Charles. She’d had practice, after all. She’d had to grow used to hiding her feelings and her beliefs from Harry. Her husband had become more and more enamoured of the utilitarian ideals and he’d become a party member. If she’d given him reason to suspect her activities, or just cause to spite her, which was more likely, she could easily have been sent away herself.

She’d been free of him for some years, but the memory of that time was etched into her soul. She wasn’t cut out for deceptions and a double life, even if she found she could learn to play that game. Once Peter had died, she had told Harry that she was leaving, calmly but with finality. He hadn’t argued. Since he blamed her for Peter in the first place, she suspected it was in the end a relief to both of them to be rid of the other.

She still burned with anger when she thought of it. She would have liked to have the chance to tell Harry Scott just once, that she knew, she knew what he was: a coward and a murderer. She couldn’t understand how he could have done that, how anyone could do it – to believe in all their talk so hard, to fear them so much, that he couldn’t ever see Peter as anything other than a hindrance. He simply couldn’t see _Peter_ , she thought.

She shut that thought away and told herself instead that she worked for the resistance; she may have failed to save Peter, but she tried to make sure that other people didn’t have to die.

 

The weather hadn’t improved much by the evening. She said goodbye to Charles at the corner of the street in the lamplight and frost, and walked away. To her surprise, he ran after her, suddenly failing to keep to the rules of their charade. It startled her and made it harder to say it again, but she did: she walked away down the pavement without looking back. And he’d proved her right in her decision. She breathed out again in relief now that it was done. This game of let’s pretend wasn’t doing either of them any favours. Best to end it now.

But it was funny the mix of emotions one person could hold at once: she felt relief and surety that she’d done the right thing, but they shared space in her heart with the pain of severance.

 

She saw Charles again, of course, even if he didn’t see her. He wasn’t a cabinet member but he was a junior minister and sometimes they mentioned him in passing in the official newspapers (there were no others, not any more). Usually, it was only a list of names, with Charles Terrell somewhere in the middle, but occasionally there was something more.

Once Arran – or Colonel Seaton, as he really was – came to power, Marian saw Charles all the time in the media as it gradually reappeared. He was even on the television when they made occasional broadcasts and frequently on the radio. Everybody knew who he was now: Charles Terrell, Prime Minister. 

He hadn’t been the obvious choice. Many members of the former resistance had been dismayed by his appointment, none more so than Marian. After all, now that they’d won (for the moment), she could have written to Charles, but she couldn’t possibly write to the Prime Minister, not over a passing, anonymous affair of five or six years ago. That would be silly – the last thing that he’d want with the business of running a ruined country to worry about. She didn’t envy him, and only hoped hard that he could do something, that the government would last. She might not have seen him for long enough and put him out of her mind until now, but she couldn’t bear the idea of the government falling, after all they’d fought for, and the fact that now if it did, they’d kill Charles just as they had Hallam.

 

Victory brought with it the chance to talk freely about many things. It was strange and frightening at first after so long a time of silence, lies, and evasions. It was so hard to overcome the fear that someone would report her if she said too much, but it was liberating when she tried. Marian had learned to do her share of lying and hiding, but it had never come easily.

Harry’s sister Ellen came to see her, for the first time in years. She told Marian that Harry was dead, killed in fighting at the end. Marian wouldn’t have thought he’d had it in him, but then all sorts of people had been caught in the crossfire. She didn’t mean to be unkind, but she couldn’t help feeling glad. It was a release for her – she didn’t have to hate any living person as much as she had hated Harry, not any more. 

“Don’t worry,” Ellen Scott said, catching her expression. “I don’t expect you to do much crying over him. He had something to do with – well, with Peter, didn’t he?”

Marian nodded, her mouth tightening into a line. “He had everything to do with it. He never had any time for Peter – barely even acknowledged he was there as a rule. Then, when the orders went out, he followed party lines and reported him to the nearest detention centre.” It was the first time she’d ever said it aloud to anyone. Anna had known of it, she was sure, but it had only ever been referred to indirectly. She caught her breath in her throat over the next words. “And that – that was that.”

“I’d like to be surprised,” said Ellen, “but Harry was always one for following the rules to the letter. Just the sort to fall for all their propaganda – all of us neatly packed up and put into the right boxes. Life was always too untidy for him.”

Marian nodded.

“I couldn’t say before,” Ellen added. “It wasn’t safe, was it? But – I _am_ sorry.”

Marian concentrated closely on drinking her cup of not-exactly-tea. “It’s not your fault,” she said. She thought again about the news, about Harry being shot like that, and tried to feel something else, a passing sadness for older, better times, but all she could think of was that last moment she’d seen him, coloured forever by her revulsion and contained fury. She could try to let go of that now, couldn’t she? She could do that and not hold that hate any more.

“So am I,” Marian said, raising her head again. 

 

It was nearly a year after Colonel Seaton had come to power that Marian, at a local party meeting, heard that the Prime Minister was due to visit Newcastle. She wondered what to make of that, or whether to make anything of it at all. She’d go, of course. She didn’t have to speak to Charles; she could stand in the corner and watch, and make up her mind. After all, it had been a long while and maybe power had changed him. He wouldn’t be looking for her. He didn’t know her name, where she was, or even if she was still alive. He could only know if Anna had told him, and since he’d never bothered to get in touch before, Marian preferred to believe he didn’t know. 

“Marian,” said Robert Aysthorpe, the chairman, catching her nearly at the door afterwards. “A word, if you will?”

She laughed. “Yes?”

“Mr Terrell wants to see one or two people particularly – I think in relation to their resistance work. You were one of the names listed, so if you can make sure you’re there on the evening –”

Marian smiled. “I was already planning to come. I’d hardly want to miss it, would I? Silly man.”

“I’m sorry,” Robert said, surprised affront in his tone.

She patted his arm. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean _you_.”

Marian stepped out of the door into another frosty evening, much like the one on which she’d last seen Charles Terrell and wondered what she felt. She might, she thought wryly, only be about to be disabused of some rather foolish and sentimental old illusions and she had too few of those left as it was.

 

“Look,” said Charles, once the first moments of the reunion were over. “It’s an odd situation; let’s not pretend otherwise. But I’d like to take you out to lunch before I leave tomorrow. About time we could do that as ourselves, I’d say.”

She smiled at him, more relieved than she had expected, as if she’d finally let out a breath she’d been holding in for a very long while. “Is that allowed?”

Charles leant sideways against the wall and grinned. He slowly started to laugh. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything against it in the constitition, you know. Don’t think most of my predecessors worried about that, and you can’t possibly imagine I’m worse than Lloyd George.”

“Don’t you laugh at me,” she said, but she was laughing herself. “I was only wondering about your security people.”

He peeled himself off the wall again. “It’s on the schedule, don’t worry. To be confirmed, but there. Is that a yes?”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

They didn’t have to lie anymore, but they couldn’t be private even in a quiet café. Charles was treading very carefully, too, being particularly awkward at the start and at the end, though once they got talking, it didn’t feel so different to the way it used to be.

“It’s about time I found out something about you,” he said. “You know all about me, but you, you’re just the mysterious Alice.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hardly mysterious. I wasn’t putting on an act, and there was never that much to tell. At the time I was glad to pretend none of it existed. And getting to do something for the Resistance helped.”

“I checked the records,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat. “After Anna told me your name – to make sure you were alive. So I saw – your son –”

Marian cut him off. “Yes,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

She drew back from the table. “Yes. Everybody is now, I suppose. Oh, I didn’t mean you, Charles. And I suppose, knowing now how many years of Hallam we had left, maybe I could say better sooner than later – there wouldn’t have been much support would there? But I can’t. That’s their philosophy, isn’t it? It’s not mine.”

“Yes,” he said. “Not yours.”

Marian gave a short smile. “How would you know?”

“Silly question,” said Charles. “The one thing I do know about you is that you’ve been helping other people out of the country at the risk of your own life. It’s more than I ever did.”

“Self-pity’s never very attractive,” she said, trying not to smile. “Especially not in a politician.”

 

On the way out, when he was starting to say his farewells, and to apologetically suggest that they might be able to meet again, if she wanted, she caught hold of his arm.

“Charles,” she said, and thought again about the feeling of having lived so much of her life holding her breath. She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “Sensible is all very well, but sometimes it only goes so far. I don’t know how anything will work out, either, but I _would_ like to see you again. There’s someone I can stay with in London. I’ll come down, and we’ll talk properly.”

“Are you sure?” he said, watching her closely.

She had to laugh again. “No, of course I’m not. But soon, Charles, please. I imagine you have a secretary I should talk to about an appointment?”

She was, she realised with amused pride, when they walked out together, the sort of abandoned woman who could brazenly ask the prime minister out. Whoever would have thought it?

“Yes,” said Charles, “and don’t let him fob you off. He’s a menace.”

“I’ll promise you that much,” Marian said, and smiled.


	23. Ashes and Dust (T, 1992: Charles Terrell/Marian Dalton, Edward Woodfield, Louise Murray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One revolution leads to another; that’s the way it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late 1992; Charles Terrell, Marian Dalton, Edward Woodfield, Louise (Liesa) Seaton. Post-canon; the new government is becoming more established, when there’s an unexpected attack in London.
> 
> Prompts: Passionfruit #22 (time is the fire in which we burn)
> 
> Notes/warnings: terrorism,bombs, guns, threatened executions, fighting. (Or, things actually happen instead of everyone talking, amazing.)

The first explosion was so small that nobody knew exactly what it was. The second, however, went off on Westminster Bridge, stopping the traffic, killing a cab driver, and swiftly making the news.

Marian Dalton had been making her way over to New Parliament House when she heard it. She stopped and turned to look, much as the rest of the people around her did – and probably they were suddenly remembering the bad old days, just as she was. 

 

The third explosion shook the new Parliament buildings. Charles Terrell was in the lobby, talking to Edward Woodfield, and they and everybody around them turned. There was no immediate sign of what had caused it, but they could hear the sounds of unusual activity elsewhere filtering through the sudden wary silence here: shouts and hurried footsteps from all directions.

“Sir,” said the nearest police officer. “Prime Minister. This way. You, too, sir,” he said to Woodfield.

Woodfield followed, but raised his eyebrows at Charles as they went. “Good God, what now?”

“Déjà vu,” said Charles under his breath. He was sure he could also hear shooting now, just as they had that morning a year and a half ago. Was it all happening again? He couldn’t help thinking it might be, and as the first shock began to recede, he felt only anger and frustration. Not now, he thought, not when they were getting somewhere. What idiot was going to step in at this moment and throw all that away, only to start the whole bloody cycle all over again?

“Terrell!” Woodfield said as the hall echoed with a shot that sounded even louder than the explosion. The policeman beside them fell without a word.

Charles darted a hasty glance around, then grabbed at Woodfield, leading him out of the hall at a run, and into one of the offices.

Woodfield directed a quick, observant glance around the small room while Charles locked the door. He moved across to the window before turning around. “Damn you, there’s no other exit.”

“Well, then, shut up and help me barricade the door,” said Charles, and they shunted the filing cabinet over in front of it, and then the desk, political rivalry temporarily cast aside in favour of survival for a few more minutes.

Woodfield leant against the wall. “They will find us, you know. They’re bound to be after you.”

“Time is all we need,” said Charles, hoping it was true. “The security services will have everything under control soon.”

Woodfield tilted his head to one side. “It’s not reminding you of anything, is it? I remember being locked in one of these rooms before, only last time it was your lot. I seem to recall hearing that you were, too – until your friends dragged you out. The benefits of being a double agent, eh? I never ran to treachery, despite my many other sins.”

Charles couldn’t deny it. He crossed to the window, hoping to see something that would suggest Special Branch or the police or someone was beginning to get a handle on things. This lot, whoever they were, couldn’t be as organised as Colonel Seaton’s people had been. Seaton had known what he was doing and he’d had people already in the government. This had come so out of the blue, it had to be a more random rebel group, or maybe a terrorist organisation, most likely after a specific aim. 

“They’ll kill us both, you know,” Charles said. “If they find the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition handily shut in together, they’re not going to let either of us go.” He winced, hearing more shots outside. “I don’t think they’re the type.”

Woodfield nodded. “I’m fully aware of that. So, forgive me if I distract us from our likely impending deaths with less dangerous arguments.”

It wasn’t like last time, anyway, Charles thought, leaning his head against the wall in weariness. Last time he’d been locked in, Anna had come and let him out. It was Anna who’d organised everything, Anna who’d made him Prime Minister, Anna who’d come to rescue him and Woodfield once before when an angry rebel had made targets out of them. Today Anna wasn’t here, and he wasn’t sure he had the same faith in anyone else.

 

The intruder who made it into Louise Seaton’s private quarters in the palace hesitated before raising his gun to shoot her. It was a costly error, since Mrs Seaton – Liesa – made no such mistake.

“Ma’am,” said the soldier who reached her moments later only to find her bending over the body.

Liesa looked up briefly and then held up a hand as she removed the gun and searched the fallen rebel for ammunition. He wasn’t much more than a boy, she thought, but it was merely a detached observance. Liesa had been a fighter for a long time before she had been an important state figure and she slipped back into the role with ease.

“Please, ma’am,” said the soldier again. “I must get you to safety. They’ve already taken hold of New Parliament House and we’ve got fighting here, too.”

She straightened herself and faced him. “Captain Alcott, isn’t it? I’m not going to safety. We need to take back first the palace and then Parliament House. They may have struck an impressive blow, but they’re clearly amateurs – or this young man certainly was. They can’t hold the place for long, not against any serious resistance.”

“It’s imperative you reach safety –”

“I understand,” said Liesa. “However –” She stopped, catching sight of more movement behind him in the corridor. “Stay still!” she ordered, and fired again, past Captain Alcott, hitting the second rebel.

Alcott swung round and caught hold of the man as he fell, pulling his weapon from him and shoving him to the ground.

“Amateurs, you see,” said Liesa, with a wry little smile. “Get him in here and we’ll see if he’s got any idea about their strength, numbers and strategy.”

Captain Alcott ceased to argue, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”

 

“Tell us what it is you want,” Charles said, as he and Woodfield were marched out at gunpoint into the open space between the buildings. He kept his mind on his efforts to reach his captors and not on the situation, which had not yet been rectified by the security services after all. “We might be able to reach an agreement. You’ve got no chance of holding the country, not like this. You can kill us, but you’ll also wind up dead. How about we try to work out an alternative?”

“I don’t care,” said one of them. “No bloody point to anything anyway, is there?”

Woodfield raised an eyebrow. “How pessimistic in one so young.”

“Angry at the world, I suppose?” said Charles, ignoring Woodfield and focusing on the rebel who was willing to talk. “How is this going to help?”

“We’ll get rid of you – all of you,” he said. “What’s changed, since you lot took over? We’ll do better to kill you all and burn this place down. And if they kill us, at least we’ll have done that – it won’t be so easy for anyone to start again.”

Charles could recognise the urge to give up on everything, just to destroy it all instead and hope something better would rise from the ashes, but that wasn’t how the world worked. “You really want to take us back even further? When you disrupt government, it’s not just about politicians like us – all the infrastructure, the vital services need to be maintained or people are going to suffer even more than they already have.”

“And if that’s your agenda,” said Woodfield, “why haven’t you killed us already?”

Charles darted a dark look in the other’s direction, but Woodfield either didn’t see it, or didn’t choose to see it, ignoring him. 

“It’s not a bluff,” said the rebel. “We just want people to know you’ve gone. We’ve got a couple of the BBC people here, and we’re going to use them to let everyone in the country see it.”

That was a chilling thought. Even aside from the idea of someone hanging him, Marian was supposed to be arriving this morning. Charles didn’t want to think of her instead watching his execution live on television. That was definitely not what they’d planned. He took a deep breath and made himself continue the conversation. It might be their only hope.

“So,” he said, “You’re going to kill us. Fair enough. But what do you _give_ people? If not a new government, what? Get rid of as many of us as you can and then what happens? Panic? Anarchy? Starvation and disease? Is that what you want?”

Another one of them turned. They didn’t have uniforms, but he had a red armband tied round his sleeve – one of their leaders, perhaps? “Shut up,” he barked, and shoved Charles to the ground.

Charles landed awkwardly, grazing palms and knees, and wincing as the impact jarred his bones. He had never been one of the resistance’s fighters, and he was too old to start now. His acts of rebellion had always been through paperwork. Now he managed speeches instead, but it wasn’t so very different; it was all about the words.

“No more lies,” said the leader, glaring down at Charles out of dark eyes. “It’s over – and they’re going to know that it is. Maybe then we can get somewhere.”

Charles closed his eyes. He might never have been a violent man, but he was angry now. He’d watched Hallam’s rise to power, or what he could of it from being frequently in and out of a prison cell. It seemed to him that the previous generation had tried to burn and then freeze the world in turn, and he felt the rage that came with the thought all over again. There was nothing new under the sun, that was what they said, but they needed to go back to some something like the country they’d had before all that, not relieve the oppression and the revolution.

He drew himself up on his knees. “And what if it’s not all over?” he asked. “What then? We’ve got a chance here – and you’re throwing all that away!”

“You all lie,” the man said, and kicked at Charles. “But you needn’t worry. You’ll be dead – for your crimes.”

Woodfield waited until the leader had moved back towards the building, and looked at the other, younger rebel. “So, what are we waiting for, then?”

Why did Woodfield still have to come out with the worst possible thing, even in these circumstances? Charles wondered, before realising that there was a painfully obvious answer to Woodfield’s question. He looked again at the makeshift scaffold, forcing himself, making mental measurements.

“At a guess,” said Charles to Woodfield in a low tone, “Mrs Seaton. Head of State, Prime Minister, and the Leader of the Opposition. One big spectacle, us all finished together, caught on the same piece of film.”

Woodfield watched as Charles got to his feet, cautiously, with an eye to their guard.

“This rabble can’t succeed for long,” Woodfield said. “But the lack of response from the military and security people is appalling. I shall be raising this in the House if we ever get the opportunity again.”

The guard turned then and barked an even ruder request for Woodfield to shut up. Charles felt almost in sympathy with him. He looked ahead again, at the would-be scaffold and told himself that at least he wouldn’t have to be Prime Minister for much longer. He supposed he could be grateful for that small mercy.

 

Marian had decided to watch what she could from the Embankment, staying near Westminster Bridge, with the Parliament buildings visible across the river. It was impossible to get any nearer just yet, and she had still retained old habits of being part of the resistance: no point in effectively handing herself over, so she didn’t go up to either the police or the soldiers. She surveyed the site again and satisfied herself that at least New Parliament Buildings were standing and the authorities were onto it, and nipped back into the nearest public house where they had a television and a radio. She wasn’t the only one, she thought, old, cautious habits creeping back again – no one would note her behaviour as out of the ordinary or suspect that she had more reason to need to hear the news than most.

The television was only intermittent at the moment, but the radio was still broadcasting: there had been a series of minor explosions in central London, including at Westminster and a rebel group were currently holding several cabinet minister hostage. It was not yet known what they wanted.

Marian moved aside when someone pushed forward. She didn’t shake or look for a chair. She kept her expression to one of mild concern, and ordered a drink from the barman. “Terrible business, isn’t it?” she said.

“Well, at least it’s happened to the people who deserve it for a change,” said the barman, but he glanced anxiously at the radio again; it was a poor attempt at humour. He passed her a glass of apple juice. “Sure you don’t want anything stronger?”

She smiled. “No, of course not. We’ve been through worse – you’ll see.” Then she moved across to a corner where she could set her drink down on a small, battered and sticky table, and try not to think about Charles. You’d think the reporter could have damn well said whether or not one of the cabinet ministers in question was the Prime Minister. Then she took a drink and thought with dismay that that probably was an answer in itself: if the PM had been safe, they’d have said so. It would have been a reassuring note to add. If they hadn’t, then either he was being held hostage, or they didn’t know what had happened to him. And Marian didn’t think Charles was any more deserving of that than she was, even if he was a politician. 

 

Anna had once told Charles that the new government needed him because the future lay with people who could fight with words and not with weapons. It was just that sometimes you needed the people who could fight with weapons, and Charles wondered where the hell they all were at this particular moment. If they’d still had Anna or Colonel Seaton, someone would have been here by now. Most likely this would never have happened. It was the loss of Seaton that was still the problem; no point in pretending otherwise.

Even as he thought, one of the rebels standing nearby fell with a short cry, and Charles realised the man had been shot. Up ahead of them, one of the other rebels fired at the reporter, falling himself only moments later.

The young rebel beside Charles and Woodfield reached for his own gun. The boy was shaking badly, Charles could see – he might hit anyone if he fired, although at this range, it’d probably still be Woodfield or Charles. Charles acted almost without thought, stepping forward to grab the young man’s arm until he dropped the gun.

“Let it go,” said Charles. “And for heaven’s sake – get down!” He pulled him to the ground with him as he spoke; Woodfield having already ducked. 

Charles held his breath, lying next to both of his enemies on the cracked concrete. There were a few more shots that echoed round the yard, and he saw one other rebel not far away fall to the ground with a soft thud. After that, everything grew quiet. Charles risked pushing himself up only to see Louise Seaton looking down at him.

“Mr Terrell,” said Liesa. She looked far less tidy than usual, and she had dirt on her face, but she was otherwise unhurt, he was relieved to see, and now she managed a smile for him. “I hadn’t given permission for you to dissolve the government, you know.” She held out a hand and nodded to Woodfield beside him. “Mr Woodfield. I hope you’re also unharmed.”

Charles got to his feet hastily, unable to help a grin despite the gravity of the situation. Not all of their fighters had left them yet. “You should have got to safety, not led the cavalry, you know. I can’t approve, ma’am.”

“I was trying,” Liesa said, “but people kept getting in my way.”

 

The next hour or two was split between being checked over by a doctor (and being told what he already knew – that he had a few cuts and bruises, but he’d live), and discussing the matter with various people in various military positions, and then with Special Branch, who informed him that they had the core of the group; that this lot had been it and they’d have the last few soon, which news Charles used in the reassuring and rallying speech he gave with Liesa. He met his private secretary and cancelled his appointments for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn’t until nearly four that he could finally see Marian, waiting for him in someone’s office.

He approached her, uncertain what she’d want to do after this interruption. He felt the weariness of it; that all that they had done, all that they could do was never _enough_. There was always still more to be done, always somebody who wasn’t happy. You just tried all you could, Charles thought, and no matter how much you failed, you kept on trying. 

“Charles,” said Marian, closing the space between them. “At last! I was worried.”

He gave a small smile, hearing that edge of an Irish accent intensifying in her concern. “I wondered about you, too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“I didn’t go to the flat,” she said. “I stayed close and observed what was going on. Old habits die hard, it seems.”

“They do,” he agreed. He shook off the nervousness he seemed to reacquire each time he saw her and stepped nearer instead, putting his arms around her. “Marian.”

When they pulled apart, he saw, to his surprise, that she was wiping her eyes and fumbling for a hanky. She caught his look and gave a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. It only – you called me Marian, just like that, without thinking. Not Alice. I’m glad.”

“Some things do change, then,” he said. “I know you better now. Alice had her limits, after all. I couldn’t ever take her home, could I?”

She smiled with all her usual warmth. “When can we see each other now – or are you going to be too busy?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Charles. “It is going to take a while. We’ll find a slot somewhere tomorrow, I promise.”

She touched his arm. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’m not going to run away. I always knew it would be a challenge, seeing the Prime Minister, but I’m not about to give up yet.”

“Neither am I,” said Charles. “But on the other hand, I still have to go. Everyone’s in an uproar, and will be for some time, I should think. You _are_ all right?”

Marian nodded. “Oh, yes. Nothing that won’t come out in the wash. Go and do what you have to, love. I’ll be at Ellen’s when you want me. Give me a call, as long as the lines aren’t down.”

Charles walked away, feeling at least a little more optimistic about the future, and more grateful than usual that he had one. On the downside, though, he reflected, he was still Prime Minister; there was no getting out of it yet.


End file.
